Monty Python's 'Fellowship of the Ring'
by Morthoron
Summary: The stunning sequel to Monty Python's The Hobbit. Follow the frenetic folly as the fumbling Frodo is foisted on the fractious Fellowship for a frolicking flit through Middle-earth. Nominated for the 2010 MEFA's in the Tax & Accountancy category.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: This is a not-for-profit story, and is in no way meant for publication; therefore, both the Tolkien Estate and the members of Monty Python can rest assured, there will be no royalties due and nothing forthcoming in the way of monetary remuneration for the meager author of this farcical romp through Middle-earth.

**~~BOOK I: THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING, Bein' the first par' 'o' Lor' of th' Rings, an' all~~**

**Chapter None: An Explanatory Introduction with Various Oddiments Meant to Increase One's Appreciation for the forthcoming Story, in Two Parts, that being the Foreword and Prologue...**

**Just like it was the Authentic Novel (not bloody likely)! **

**FOREWORD**

The scene is one of a somewhat austere but comfortable library, ostensibly in Oxford. The yawning oak bookcases are home to a disorderly rabble of volumes leaning drunkenly one against the other, seeking slumping support as if the accumulated knowledge housed beneath their well-worn leather bindings has left them vertically challenged like rows of garrulous Gaels in a pub on St. Patrick's Day. The writing desk faces the window to take advantage of the diffused light of another dimming English evening. At the desk, behind a voluminous pile of correspondence, tightly bound bundles of manuscript and wayward pages of hastily scribbled notes that jut in wrinkled abandon from the main melee, sits a scholarly looking older gentleman abstractedly puffing away on a smoke darkened pipe of burnished briar. His gray tweed jacket with suede patches at the elbows speaks volumes of his staid, button-down nature, but such conservatism is belied by a bright blue waistcoat that peaks from under his dreary lapels like sky from behind storm clouds. He is, of course, writing intently in a dog-eared notebook with a spidery scrawl that would require the patience of a saint for any editor to decipher. Noticing me at the doorway, he grins mischievously with the pipe clenched firmly in his teeth, and beckons me to come sit at a rather severe-looking straight back wooden chair next to the desk.

"Hello, so good of you to stop by," he says with a welcoming drawl and a wafting exhale of pungent pipe smoke. As he speaks, it is clear his clipped and precise English accent has accumulated the heavy patina of academia after decades as an Oxford professor, but he is prone to rambling and slurring as his tongue can never quite catch up with his quick mind. I mention what a delight it is to finally meet the revered author, J.R.R. Tolkien, but the man suddenly stops in mid-slur and gingerly places his pipe in an ashtray piled high with spent stick matches.

"I 'ate blinkin' pipe smoke," he groans, sticking out his tongue for added emphasis.

He sighed sadly while fidgeting with his hands, and then he eyed me rather pensively. "Im terribly sorry," he blurted at last (changing tenses abruptly from one paragraph to the next), "but this aint Oxford, and I aint no professor. You see, what with compu'er gen'rated images and the death of John Houseman an' all, there aint much callin' for crotchety old fart roles these days; and since I fit the suit and look the proper part…well, 'ere I am.

"You mean…" I grumbled in disbelief.

"Aye, sorry to say, but I'm just a stunt-Tolkien."

The interview became decidedly colder after that, but the stunt-Tolkien made a valiant stab at continuing the part he was paid to play. "I could share me views regardin' alleg'ry and apple-lick…erm…applicability, if'n you'd loike."

"Well, that won't be necessary…" I mumbled. But the pseudo-professor waxed poetic over Saruman and the atom bomb, and "ther subsumed noiture of Chris-chin' symbo-loggy" for nigh on half an hour.

Finally, I cut him off by saying, "And so, there is no allegory evident in Lord of the Rings?"

"None whatsoever," he said firmly, but he became fidgety once again, and added, "Well, leastwise none in the script I scribbled on me palm." So saying, he presented his hand which had writing scrawled all the way from the tips of his fingers to below the cuff of his shirt. "Truth be told," he winked, "I aint never read th' books. 'Aven't really even seen all the movies – just that there 'Fellership 'o' ther Ring' on cable. Quoite silly, really, what with them 'airy li'l 'obbits 'n' all fightin' some monster eyeball. I could never quoite achieve a sense 'o' suspended disbelief, if you get me meanin'. As it is, I aint much fer fantastical movies 'n' such.

"Oh no?" I said in mock surprise.

"No Sir-ee!" he said in evident delight. "I'm a Shakespeare man, meself: "But sof', wot loight threw yonder winder breakest? 'Tis th' east, 'n' Juliet is ter sun…"

"That's quite...enough," I grunted in a vain effort to stop him.

" 'Tis ther hour 'o' my discontinence, made gloooorious summer by th' Sun in York -- 'at's from Richard the Third, it is."

"However remotely, I suppose."

"Me 'orse, me 'orse! A kingdom fer me 'orse!"

"Shall we get on with the story?" I hissed angrily between my clenched teeth.

"If you'd loike," he sighed in relief and started unbuttoning his restrictive waistcoat, "this bit's gettin' bleedin' old in any case."

**PROLOGUE – Concerning Hobbits**

War-correspondent Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque here in the troubled Shire, a once pastoral but peculiarly anachronistic hideaway for those harmless, albeit dim-witted, hobbits; but this Periannath paradise trembles in dismay and fear as a virulent storm threatens to hew the placid hobbitish way of life right out from under the halfling's furry little feet. I have uncovered a sordid tale of graft, political intrigue, mismanagement, bullying, rampant urbanization and industrial pollution that could fill several cozy hobbit-holes up to the bursting hinges of their quaint, but architecturally unsound, round doorways.

Here in Hobbiton, the once picturesque heart of the Shire, the hobbits -- a jovially overfed but undersized race thriving in the backwaters of Middle-earth -- have fallen on hard times. Sullen and starving after having their six to seven meals a day reduced to a mere three due to rationing, the rustic locals are also grumbling over the introduction of a new morality code that has forced the closing of their beloved taverns, those cultural oases of drunken merriment where handfuls of hammered halflings would wile away the hours in the meaningless prattle and idle gossip that are the intellectual hallmarks of hobbitish society. One spunky old fellow, known about-town by the odd nickname of 'The Gaffer', had this to say: _"It's an ill-wind as blows nobody no good, as I always said, what with them Shirriffs turning up my 'taters and all! I don't go in for all this tomfoolery, whether it's s'posed to be by-the-book or no. That Lotho'll be answerable for his shenanigans someways, and the sooner than later, if you get my meaning." _

What the Gaffer actually meant, I am not sure, but he said it with such conviction that I felt positive I was onto something. One thing was certain; the brunt of the senile hobbit's ire was directed at Lotho Sackville-Baggins, known throughout the Shire as 'The Chief' (or sarcastically as 'Pimple' in some dissident circles). Who is 'The Chief', and why is he so despised by rank-and-file Hobbitry-up-in-arms? Finding the answer was not difficult. From the low set and grimy portal windows of the Hobbiton-Bywater Holiday Inn, one can see the grim results of an ambitious push for industrialization in this rural area primarily known for agriculture, particularly the crops commonly referred to as _The Three P's_: pipeweed, potatoes and mushrooms (as the Gaffer readily admitted, _"Edication aint a'portant for farmin'"_).

The traditional hobbit holes, praised by ecologists as Middle-earth-friendly, well-insulated and unobtrusive underground homes, have been unceremoniously dug up, and in their place one now finds haphazard rows of mean tract housing and slipshod shacks, which a middle-aged hobbit-matron referred to indignantly as _"absolutely Orkish". _The town's mill, which had long been powered by energy-efficient water propulsion, has given way to a monstrously ugly, brick-chimneyed megalith belching out black soot from an iron blast furnace fired by fossil fuels such as soft coal and wood. In fact, the once tree-lined Bywater Road, the main thoroughfare through the city, has been totally denuded of trees for industrial use, and the clear-cutting of forests throughout the Shire has brought bitter complaints of erosion and _de-elvestation_. A particular _root_ cause of irritation and _disbeleaf _among the Hobbits _stems_ from the toppling of the 'Party Tree', which has some significance in a certain _branch_ of local legend; but for the sake of time I will not bore the readers with the ludicrous fable of a well-preserved 111 year-old Hobbit vanishing into thin air, as it does not _ring_ true (particularly since Oscar Wilde's _'Picture of Dorian Grey'_ will not be written for several thousand years).

But why this aggressive shift from the time-honored practice of farming, with halfling hoes and plowshares being suddenly beaten into grinding metal gears and fuel-guzzling, filthy contraptions? More to the point, how did the whole process of hyper-industrialization take less than one year from its inception to transform a bucolic and backward country of half-pint yokels into a decidedly modern and modular country of half-pint yokels? All short, stubby Hobbit fingers point directly toward that portly purveyor of pompous pronouncements, Lotho Sackville-Baggins. Sackville-Baggins, a former resident of Hardbottle, rose suddenly to power in a bloodless coup several months ago, using a seemingly limitless amount of laundered money (said to be garnered from the illicit pipeweed trade) for flagrant bribes, institutional takeovers and massive real estate purchases -- in effect, the time-honored method of buying one's way to dictatorship.

Lotho, or "_The Chief_" as he demands to be called, refused several requests for an interview, but I did manage to catch up with him, along with his prudish prune of a mother, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, outside their somewhat less-than-palatial digs in the newly renovated area of Bagshot Row, the ancestral home of the Baggins Clan, a notoriously adventurous extended family of nouveau-riche Hobbits. My attempt to get at the truth was stymied by the confustications and bebotherments of the flummoxed pair:

**Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque: **_Excuse me, Mr. Sackville-Baggins? I am B.U.R. Picaresque, reporter-at-large and author of this particular fan-fic; may I have a word with you?_

**Lobelia: **_Lotho prefers to be called 'The Chief' by his inferiors, thank you very much. Now, if you don't mind, Lotho don't wish to speak to the press. G'day._

**BURP: **_Chief Lotho, what exactly do you mean by 'good day'? Are you referring to the weather as being good, in that you find it pleasant this morning? Or do you believe the day has been, in fact, good in a personal sense? Or are you merely using the ambiguous phrase 'good day' as a vague abstraction for lack of an intelligent response? _

**Lobelia: **_All or none, it matters not to Lotho. 'Ee's a very busy gentle-hobbit, he is, and 'as many pressing affairs. Again, good day!_

**BURP: **_Ah! So by 'good day', Chief Lotho, you mean it would be a good day if I refrained from asking any further questions and left immediately?_

**Lobelia: **_Aye, 'at's precisely what Lotho meant!_

**BURP: **_Hmmm…throwing your voice like that must be in big demand at birthday parties…but Chief Lotho, can you answer the claims of your detractors that you have usurped the reigns of power in the Shire for your own enrichment? _

**Lobelia: **_Detractors? Upstarts, gluttons and loiterers, the lot of 'em! They are against progress and morality, and Lotho has rightly placed these criminals in the Lockholes for breakin' the rules -- particularly rules 5, 7 and 9 -- which are deemed acts of sedition under the 'Gatherers and Sharers Act of Year 1419'...that's in Shire Reckoning, if you weren't aware. _

**BURP: **_Right. But political prisoners, such as the former mayor Will Whitfoot, are said to live in atrocious and degrading conditions in your Lockhole Detention Facility; yet even under such trying circumstances they declare that you are actually a puppet under the influence of the shadowy Sharkey, who is said to be the true power in the Shire. Will you comment on that, Chief Lotho? _

**Lobelia: **_It's all utter nonsense, 'at's what my Lotho 'as to say! The very idea! Rumors and gossip started by them jealous Brandybucks and Tooks, no doubt. Decadent aristocrats of the faded Squirearchy, 'at's what they are -- all part and parcel of the Shire's stagnant economy! My Lotho was duly elected and operates in accordance with accepted practices of good governance as administered by the local authority. _

**BURP: **_Ummm…yes, whatever that means. And what of the rebels who are bravely holding out up in the Brokenbores?_

**Lobelia: **_My Lotho deems them to be terrorists, and promises the majority of decent Hobbitish citizenry that these traitors will be brought to justice -- as soon as Lotho can find 'em. For the last time, Lotho says, 'good day'! _

Any further attempts at dialogue were squelched by a menacing band of rather ill-clad mannish paramilitaries that barred my way. It is said the mysterious power broker Sharkey first introduced these uncouth mercenaries here, and they operate within the bounds of the Shire under the code name: _Ruffian_. These Ruffians tried to place me in custody, but when I demanded my rights as a journalist under the Gondorion Convention, their only doltish reply was "Garn!" (an undefined expletive particular to the men of this region). Incensed by the rude behavior of these 'Aftercomers', I had no choice but to mercilessly slay three or four of them before the remaining cowards ran off squealing like little girls. Pffft! Witless fools, bringing clubs and cudgels to a sword fight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Further Notes on the Shire (a Sort of Post-prologue **

**Rendered to Belabor the Point a Bit More)**

**1**

**A s**_**hort**_** History of Hobbits**

This book is, of course, concerned with Hobbits, although it is not entitled 'The Hobbit' because that title had already been used, and the time-honored Hollywood practice of simply renaming the sequel of an original story in sequence -- Hobbit Two, Hobbit Three, Hobbit Four, etc. -- along with a catchy tag line like 'Hobbit Two: Forever Following Frodo' or 'Hobbit Three: Milking the Franchise' had not yet been conceived. It was a happier time, a more magical time, if you discount being bludgeoned by a rusty scimitar or having your Uncle Bertie being eaten by Orcs, not to mention the lack of proper dental hygiene. Needless to say, it was a wondrous era in ye olde Middle-earth – if it weren't for that damned Ring. Who knew a piece of costume jewelry could cause so much trouble? But we are getting ahead of ourselves; let us instead look to our behinds for a glimpse of the real meat of the story. Perhaps that is why chronicles are often referred to as annals.

The lengthy and laborious history of Hobbits snakes its way into the shadowy past. We are not quite sure where Hobbits haled from originally or how they came to be. The Elvish theory concerning Hobbits was that they first arose from under cow patties in the 1st Age. Supposedly, it was during one of the Valar's lengthy vacations and they were named Stools (later changed to Stoors as the Hobbits gentrified); however, this was later discounted due to the haughty Elves' contempt for anything non-Elvish. Be that as it may, the Hobbits' first recorded movements took place sometime in the 3rd Age as they migrated over the Misty Mountains and set up shop in Eriador in western Middle-earth. Eriador was home to tinkers, gypsies, rangers, dwarves and various other unsavory sorts, but residential property taxes were low, immigration laws were lax and nobody really noticed the horde of Halflings invading the land until it was far too late. Like medieval Europeans, the inhabitants of Eriador merely shrugged off the infestation much as they would rats, fleas or ticks, being that pesticides were not yet in use and Orcs, trolls and wargs were more of a concern.

After much moving back and forth across the land, settling and pulling up stakes, immigration and remigrations, the Dunedain King Argeleb II, in an effort to get rid of the pesky little blighters, granted the Hobbits malarial swamp land out in the sticks past the Baranduin River. Thus, the Fallohide brothers Marcho and Blanco (Hobbitish for Harpo and Chico – Groucho does not come into this tale) founded the Shire in the year 1601 T.A., or Year One in Shire Reckoning (usually figured by counting fingers and toes after several ales). Ensconced now in the area of the Shire, Chico and Harpo were soon followed by their Fallohidish clansmen, and the other Hobbitish racial varieties, the Stoors and Harfoots (or Harfeet, if you prefer). The Fallohides were gay like the Elves (at least, according to the Dwarves), tall and merry with fair complexions and a decided disdain for the lesser breeds of Hobbits. The Harfoots were a nutty brown color, like a nice pint of stout with a foaming head, although not nearly as tasty. The Stoors were broad and stout, but not like the beer, and wore boots, which marked them as 'queer' by the other Hobbitish breeds, but not in the sense of being Elvish (again, according to the Dwarves).

The sturdy (some would say stolid) Hobbits made it through plagues, wicked winters with white wolves, and invented golf (for which I hope they all spend their eternal repose in the bloody bowels of Hell), but eventually they became quite settled in their cozy little hobbit holes – too cozy. Life in the Shire was very monotonous, like listening to your senile granny relive the first fifty years of the 20th century without her teeth in. This nearly morbid mundanity served the majority of the Halflings well. Most never walked further from their ancestral homes than to reach the communal outhouse, and some didn't even make it that far, making for some rather unpleasant scenes during family meals. They lived and died within earshot of the dinner bell, eating being the national pastime, followed closely by drinking, gossiping and mathoming. A Mathom, for the uninitiated readers, is a useless gift that can be 'regifted' to someone else, rather like our Christmas tradition of giving and regiving fruitcakes without ever eating them. It is said the original fruitcake is still in existence, passing from one family to another around the world. This shrink-wrapped, bricklike lump could be the original mathom baked so many ages ago in the Shire. It would be just like a Hobbit to make a fruitcake. Wankers.

But this dull existence did not sit well with some of the more adventurous Hobbits. For instance, there was a certain strain of madness found in the grandly eccentric family of Tooks, who lived by the hundreds in their massive excavation in Tuckborough. They would often wander off and never be heard of again, get caught paddling boats (Hobbits did not float as they were made of lead pellets and gypsum), or merely live too long to suit decent folk (it was a dreadful faux pas among Hobbits to live past a century). This annoying hereditary eccentricity visited itself on the once respectable Baggins family in the person of one Bilbo Baggins, who had the bad luck of being related maternally to the Took clan. Like his Tookish ancestors, he wandered off with a flea-bitten band of dwarves one day, was proclaimed legally dead when he did not return in an appropriate amount of time to suit his edgy Baggins' relatives, and then he had the unmitigated gall of returning unexpectedly and living well beyond a hundred years! Well, you can imagine the squirms of discomfort experienced by constipated Hobbitish society! That 'Mad Baggins' was fabulously wealthy they had no doubt, having accumulated, it was said, a horde of dragon gold in his errant travels, and it was only for fear of being written out of his will that kept them civil, which bound them up even further. But more on that later.

**2**

**Concerning Pipeweed**

As the story goes, pipeweed was first cultivated by Tobold Hornblower of the Southfarthing, but it did not become widely popular until the disposable lighter was invented by Zippo Proudfoot in 2673 of the 3rd Age. A very wealthy mushroom merchant, Zippo had a servant carry around matches for him. When that servant ran out of matches, Zippo would fire him and hire another with a full supply. Creation of the first pipes came in handy as well, as previous to their invention many a Hobbit badly burned his cupped hands while trying to inhale tobacco smoke.

**3**

**Of the Ordering of the Shire**

The Shire was divided into four quarters, or 'Fartings' as they were originally termed. A 'Farting' was the distance downwind one could smell a Hobbit pass gas. With the amount of greasy sausages, fried mushrooms and piles of cabbage one Hobbit could consume, the distance covered by a particular fart was quite far. Eventually, conservative values and propriety prevailed and 'Farting' was discreetly changed to 'Farthing', and thus, the East, West, North and South Farthings have remained in the Shire ever since, as well as some lingering noxious fumes.

The Shire had no particular government at the time per se, rather, their numerous clans were loosely ruled by an anachronistic squirearchy that resembled 17th century England, save everyone was very tiny and had furry toes, which is not necessarily characteristic of the English during the reign of Charles I, although Oliver Cromwell's mother was said to have a heavier beard than her son. Remarkably, the rather libertarian Hobbits did not mint coinage, print stamps or levy taxes, but there still seemed to be plenty money about to pay for a postal service, shirriffs and bounders (the collective Halfing police agencies), or the plethora of pubs that dotted the Shires landscape. But Tolkien blithely ignored the realities of commerce and capitalism, and perhaps we should as well…

….And now for something completely different: Hobbit pornography! Considering the invisible hand of non-ritualistic Catholicity permeating Hobbitish society, stiff as it was with a rigid class-system groaning with Victorian repression, one can easily ascertain among heaving Halflings who was on top and who was bringing up the rear (speaking from a purely societal sense). The sublimated Popery never swelled to bulging proportions, as religiosity was neatly swept beneath the covers, but there was still a missionary zeal among Hobbits -- at least in the sense of the commission of one's procreative mission, with no admission of dominant/submission, a glaring omission certainly in keeping with the stifled moral aspects of the priggish Perrianath.

But roiling below the prim veneer of tightly buttoned weskits and brooding bustles was a nipple…I mean…ripple of kinkiness pervading the seedy underbelly of seemingly staid Hobbitish life. Is it any wonder that the mushroom, that most phallic of fungi, was worshipped by these habitual hole-dwellers? Of course, proclivities and fetishes stayed as well hidden as the inhibited inhabitants ensconced in their undulating mounds, and a symbolic code – a language of love – rose up among the Hobbits, representing a secret idiom that foiled nosey outsiders, but was as good as a wink and a nudge to the knowing Shirelings. For example, there was the rather disturbing naming convention of some established Hobbitish families that vaguely resembled soft-core porn (Bilbo and Bungo, for instance), and the more pervasive naming of female Hobbits after flowers, who were, naturally, pollinated quite regularly with fertile abandon.

Of course, there was the presence of 'confirmed bachelors' living under the same roof (which is perhaps where the 'Queer Lodgings' chapter from 'The Hobbit' got its name), and the all too uncomfortable sequence of four adult male Hobbits cavorting and dancing about naked on the Barrow Downs. To put it in terms that are not too explicit, Samwise had to marry Rosie Cotton, not because he knocked her up prematurely, but because the gossip around Hobbiton centered on Bag End (and if that isn't a metaphoric name, I don't know what is), and the odd relationship between the 'gardener' and his 'master'. Talk about turning into something 'unnatural'! Erm...not that there is anything wrong with that...from a strictly modern, revisionist view. Whew!

And another thing, have you noticed that the further Hobbits climb up the Halfling ladder of high society, their names get more and more absurdly non-Hobbitish? In perusing the tediously tended lists of family geneologies, one can't help but notice the 'wealth' of ornate names bequeathed to scions of the more socially-conscious Hobbit families. We have scholary references in Gerontius (perhaps from Cardinal Newman's _'Dream of Gerontius'_), Isengrim (from the Latin Ysengrimus, a wolf of early European tales like _Reynard the Fox_), Adelard (Adelard of Bath, a scholastic philosopher), Odovacar (a Gothic king) and Heribald (mentioned in Bede's _'Historiam Ecclesiasticam Gentis Anglorum'_); Latinate forms such as Belladonna, Hugo and Gundolpho; Frankish or Norman forms in Odo, Otho, Otto and Fredegar; from Spain, Esmerelda, Ferdinand and Sancho; from the Welsh, Meriadoc, Gorbadoc, Gormodoc, etc.; and a scattering of Germanic names like Filibert and Gerda. Then there's poor Sam stuck holding the ladder.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: An Unexpected Party, Part I **

**(not really unexpected, Hobbits are terrible with secrets)**

A few years earlier from the previous news report found in Chapter None…

BBC war correspondent Hunter Horatio Hemingway here…well, I was a war correspondent, but since that unfortunate incident with the virgin, the llama and the troop of drunken Portuguese sailors, I have been demoted to reporting 'entertainment and human-interest stories'. Who knew the girl was the news editor's daughter? Well, she weren't no virgin in any case, if you get me meanin'…wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Ummm…alright then…we are here on Bagshot Row on the Hill at Bag End. My assignment: beat the tabloids to a scoop regarding the 'Bilbo Baggins' Eleventy-one Birthday Bash'. I know, I know – how can a journalist with my credentials be caught dead reporting on some old munchkin geezer's birthday? That's lower than trying to get exclusive photos of Michael Jackson's plasticine corpse, or discussing geopolitical economics with Paris Hilton in hopes of getting a nipple shot! Well, it's a living. I've got my resume in at CNN and Reuters. Perhaps I can use this Hobbit bit as a springboard to the bigs again.

In any case, I have been foiled repeatedly at getting an exclusive interview with Mr. Baggins himself. The reclusive eccentric has been holed-up in his digs at Bag End, and no one has seen hide nor hair of the half-pint since this whole birthday affair was announced. I did try to speak with the elusive and mysterious figure locals call 'Gandalf' as he was entering Bag End:

**Hunter Horatio Hemingway:** Mr. Gandalf! What's in the waggon? It looks to be fireworks.

**Gandalf:** No pictures, thank you.

**HHH: **Mr. Gandalf, can you explain the numerous aliases you go by throughout Middle-earth? The Dwarves name you Tharkûn, down South you go by Incánus, the Elves call you Mithrandir – what are you trying to hide? Who are you really, and what exactly is your mission?

**Gandalf: **No questions, please, I am very busy.

**HHH:** Olórin, Greyhame, Stormcrow, Lathspell. 'Ill-news' -- not very flattering. Certainly not on the respectable level of a Merlin or Dumbledore.

**Gandalf:** I beg your pardon?

**HHH: **You know, the other archetypical wizards of popular literature, Merlin and Dumbledore…

**Gandalf:** Do not speak their names here!

**HHH: **And then there's Tim the Enchanter. Great accent!

**Gandalf:** That will be quite enough of that!

**HHH:** Pffft! What are you going to do – turn me into something unnatural?

BBC War correspondent Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque here, subbing for human-interest reporter Hunter Horatio Hemingway, who is on indefinite leave after being turned into a head of cabbage. Good luck to you, Hunter, in your new position as a side dish for corned beef.

Picking up the strands of the story from the previous correspondent, but keeping straight away from meddling in the affairs of wizards, who are quick to anger and obviously not too keen on sarcasm, I have just arrived at the rustic Ivy Bush on Bywater Road. The Ivy Bush, a popular watering hole for habitually besotted local Hobbits, is said to be one of the best places in Hobbiton to pick up on the latest party gossip. We are here to interview that font of mangled malapropos and 'tater gardener supreme, Hamfast Gamgee, one of the most famousest denizens of Bagshot row and an employee of Bilbo Baggins. Perhaps buying the old 'Gaffer' a few pints will get us the scoop we are looking for.

**Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque:** Good evening, Mr. Gamgee!

**Gaffer Gamgee:** Eh? Where's yer weskit? I don't go in for iron-mongery whether it wears well or no!

**BURP: **Ummm...I'm not wearing chain mail!

**GG:** Eh? Wassatchoosay? Make bail? Them good fer nothin' shiriffs must be out and about again, eh? Dug up my taters, they did, without so much as a how d'you do!

**BURP:** Well...

**GG:** Heh...Now that's a deep subject, and make no mistake. But don't be a'hangin' 'round the lip o' one -- you could fall off'n and get drownded!

**BURP:** Good advice...

**GG:** Head lice? My Sam used to get them a'feerful! Lazy slowcoach as he was, a' sleepin' in the cabbages and dreamin' 'o' faeries...errr...beggin' your Elfish pardon. But I find a' scrubbin' with a harsh lye soap'll get them critters but good!

**BURP:** You have trouble hearing, don't you?

**GG:** Who's been Disappearing? Well, truth to tell, there aint been none 'o' that since Mister Billbo went off adventuring and what not. Ill will come of it, as I said at the time. Taking up with all them queer folk aint natural, present company excepted, but the Bagginses done treated me and my Sam as good as gold, if you get my meaning.

**BURP:** No, but I hardly think that matters at this point...

**GG:** My point? Well, I guess I haven't come to one yet, truth be told. Never heard tell Elves were such hasty folk. But one thing chases out another, and there you have it!

*Long pause*

**BURP:** Ummm...have...what?

**GG:** What?

**BURP:** There you have what?

**GG:** What what, wot?

**BURP:** Never mind...

**GG:** The mind? Well, they say that's the first to go, but I don't take no stock in such talk. I'm fit as fiddle and twice as loud, as you might say!

**BURP:** Please continue, don't let me stop you.

**GG:** Well, that's right kindly of you, and make no mistake. Never did much conversin' with you Elfish folk. Too high falootin' for my tastes. My Sam now, he is ever traipessing off willy-nilly with the likes o' you. 'Elfs and For'ners!' I'd say to Sam, 'Don't get mixed up in the business of your betters, or you'll land in trouble too big for you. Mind them that are above your station --know your place!' I used to tell him.

**BURP:** Ummm...I am not an Elf.

**GG:** But he's done quite well for himself, my Sam. Bless his heart. He's Master Frodo's personal manservant. Like them there Anglo Batmen in Worl' War One; but not that there superhero feller with the mask, though…

**BURP**: Do tell...

**GG**: But my Sam's been known to be quite the hellish halfling, as you might say. Got bas'ard chil'ren fallin' out 'o' the woodwork, he does. Got them lil Hobbit maids knocked up more times than a cathouse door on a Saturday eve, if you get my meaning...

**BURP:** I'm not sure, I....

**GG:** 'Sam!' I told him, 'keep your trousers on and quit yer traipessing off! No good will come of either', as I always say.

**BURP:** I am speechless...

**GG:** Speeches? Well, Mister Bilbo is one for a well-turned phrase, but I aint one for speechifyin'...

**BURP:** One would never know...

**GG:** Lightnin' strike me if I lie! No sir, my Sam and I are Hobbits of few words, and the less said the more's the better, and that's the truth as I sees it. Not cos' a cat's got my tongue, mind you. I'll say my piece if I reckon it's due, in a manner of speaking...

**BURP:** Well, I'd like to thank you for this illuminating talk...

**GG: **...and I've been known to tip my lid after a pint or two of ale, but where's the harm in that, I ask ye? Nothing bad ever done come of it, as there aint no call for goin' off half-cocked -- beggin' your pardon for the phrase.

**BURP:** I wish we had more time...

**GG:** Ah well, It's an ill-wind as blows nobody no good, and all's well as ends better, as I've always said...

**BURP:** Say good night, dear Gaffer!

**GG:** Deer laughter? Well, I heard tell of a fox doin' some talkin' up Farmer Maggot's way, but I aint never heard tell of elk and such with a sense 'o' humor. How'd that there deer get so jolly then – drinkin'? Heh, guess that'd make him a _Merry Brandybuck_!

**BURP:** I SAID, GOOD NIGHT, MR. GAMGEE!

**GG:** Now, now, there's no call for yellin' and being a disturber o' the peace 'n' all. Now, are you a' sayin' it's a good night cos' the weather's to yer likin', or are you a' sayin' good night...

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

"Damnable reporters," Gandalf growled as he slammed the round door of Bilbo's hobbit-hole, "they're thicker in the Shire than Saruman's spies!"

"I'll say," Bilbo grumbled in commiseration. "Just yesterday I had to shoo several out of my pantry. Claimed they were here on party business."

"So much for journalistic ethics," Gandalf sighed sadly. Then, as if the thought of ethics had jarred something loose in Gandalf's mind, he added, "You're going through with your plan, Bilbo?"

"Yes, yes, all the arrangements have been made, Gandalf," Bilbo replied in mild exasperation.

"You're going through with your whole plan, then?"

"Yes, I said so already."

"All of it?"

"Yes, all of it!"

"You're not going to leave anything out?"

"No, nothing's been left out, I will attend to everything."

"Everything?"

"Look, you're becoming very annoying. Just what are you getting at?"

"Oh, nothing…nothing," Gandalf said with a worried look. "I just want to make sure you're going through with your whole plan."

"I said that I would!"

"All of it?"

"Oh for God's sake, let's not start this up again! I mean to take a long holiday, and I expect I won't be coming back. Now, quit your damned harping and let me enjoy my birthday party."

Gandalf, realizing he might have gone beyond the bounds of friendly advice, decided to lighten the discussion. "Shall we go outside and blow smoke rings?"

"Yes, I am sure the readers are expecting the first of the special–effects sequences."

Soon, the two old friends were on the porch smoking their clay pipes contentedly. Bilbo blew some lovely smoke rings that wafted languidly up through the cool evening air, but Gandalf countered every one of Bilbo's rings with some smoking wizardly concoction that outdid the Hobbit's attempts. Bilbo would blow a nice large ring, and Gandalf would send several smaller rings of fuchsia and chartreuse right through the bigger one like so many trained tie-dyed poodles through a hoop. In response, Bilbo quickly blew a long series of rings, but the wizard then bound these together like an ethereal chain, and then the smokesmith sent the entire group spiraling like Saturn's outer rings skyward. He then blew out a scale representation of the Starship Enterprise (complete with Spock and Captain Kirk on the bridge) through the clasped, rotating ring.

"Bloody show-off," Bilbo grunted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: It's My Party and I'll **_**Hie**_** If I Want To**

And so, as we all know, Bilbo's fabled eleventieth birthday party passed into the annals of Shire lore, and it was quite an extraordinary event from start to finish. Well, the more conservative Hobbitish contingent would label the party as 'queer' rather than extraordinary, but that would be afterwards; at the time, they were much too drunk to do more than grunt in stupored satisfaction and scratch their privates uninhibitedly. Tolkien states the fireworks supplied by Gandalf started promptly at 6:30 pm, right before the main meal, dinner (or supper). This seems odd, as viewing such a pyrotechnic display in broad daylight would lessen the effect; perhaps night came earlier in the Dark Ages. In any event, the overindulgent feast was a gourmand's gluttonous overkill on such a scale that a medieval Medici or Borgia would blush from the conspicuous consumption. After everyone had eaten their fill (in the Hobbits' case, they were never actually filled – let's just say there was a lull in the culinary carnage), Bilbo Baggins rose to give the customary (if not dreaded) dinner speech:

"_My dear Bagginses and Boffins_," he began with relish (he had forgotten to wipe the corners of his mouth), "_and Tooks and Brandybucks, Grubbs and Chubbs, Bolgers and Bracegirdles!"_

With every familial utterance by Bilbo, there were cheers from various dinner tables as each respective clan yelled in approval of their own names. But Bilbo, who had downed a considerable amount of Old Winyards and was flying three sheets to the wind, became enamored of his own alliteration and began making up names to suit his consonance, thus making an assonance of himself:

_"Dingleberries and Dungslingers, Bungholes and Bilgewaters, Slamdunkers and Slopswillers, Douchebags and Dillweeds!"_

After a decided lack of applause, Bilbo caught himself and continued his oration, _"Today is my one hundred and eleventh birthday: I am eleventy-one today!"_ There was a smattering of cheers, mostly in hopes that Bilbo's announcement marked the end of his speech. Unfortunately, those hopes were cruelly dashed.

_"I shall not keep you long. I have brought you all together for a purpose."_

The crowd heartily agreed with that sentiment, particularly since they thought the purpose was to eat more, and they all applauded wildly.

_"First of all, I wish to say that I am immensely fond of_ _you all_**,** _and that eleventy-one years is too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable Hobbits."_

Again, everyone was in agreement regarding their own excellence, and they cheered enthusiastically.

_"I like less than half of you half as much as you deserve, but the other half nearly half as much more -- more or less…"_

And then there was silence.

_…"I mean, half of you are not the half-wits that the other half is made out to be..."_

The silence became profound.

_"What I mean to say is, half of you are not half bad, and half are even better – half the time…"_

You could cut the tension with a knife.

_"If I had half a mind, I'd haver less and have half of you Halflings home for Hanukkah."_

Crickets were chirping (although a few hobbits began whispering the definition of 'haver' and the religious significance of 'Hanukkah' to their neighbors).

Bilbo sighed in exasperation and fortified himself with another glass of Old Winyards. Thus well armed, Bilbo dispensed with half of his intended speech (half of which you can spend half an hour reading in the book), and blurted out in a half-assed manner: _"I WISH TO MAKE AN ANNOUNCEMENT." _He nervously fingered the gold ring in his vest pocket and concluded,_ "This is the end. I am going. Leaving. Splitting. Taking the A-train. Farewell. Adieu. Adios, muchachos. Sayonara. Auf Wiedersehen. Hasta la vista, babycakes. GOOD-BYE!"_

Suddenly, he vanished in a puff of smoke and a flash of neon light that spelled out, "Gandalf was here" (it was all the wizard could come up with on the spur of the moment). Even as drunk as they were, the hosts of Hobbits were appalled. A hue and cry arose from the gathering, tables were overturned, chairs tipped over, pitchers and plates crashed to the ground, and hobbit matrons fainted dead away in their most dramatic swoons. But then, dessert was served and everyone forgot about Bilbo Baggins and his silly antics altogether.

Meanwhile, Bilbo made it back to Bag End and chuckled contentedly. He flipped his ring into the air and caught it with a satisfied snap of his fingers. "I suppose you find this all amusing, Bilbo Baggins," said a voice coming from a shadowed corner of the room.

"Gandalf!" Bilbo cried as he jumped in surprise. "Don't do that! You scared the crap out of me!"

"Not surprising, since that is what you are full of, evidently," Gandalf countered sarcastically.

"Oh come now, Gandalf, did you see the look on their faces?" Bilbo laughed in smug satisfaction. "I gave that stuck-up bunch of Hobbit prudes a thing or two to think of."

"A thing or two more than was necessary," Gandalf shot back. "Bilbo, there are many magic rings in this world and none should be taken lightly."

"Who's taking it lightly, I ask you?" Bilbo replied gruffly. "This ring has come in quite handy, it has, and I've grown quite fond of it." He then began to fondle the ring in quite an unseemly manner.

Gandalf frowned mightily. "You are going through with your plan, aren't you, Bilbo?"

"Let's not start that up again, Gandalf!" Bilbo groused. "I thought we were done with that dialogue in Chapter Three."

"It bears repeating," Gandalf stated with a glare.

"I suppose you are right, dear Gandalf," Bilbo sighed sadly, "I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like toilet paper that has been scraped over too much bum."

"I'd work a bit on that analogy," Gandalf said with obvious distaste.

"In any case, I am leaving the Shire, and most likely for good," Bilbo said with a tear in his eye.

"And the ring…?" Gandalf added.

"Ah, so that's what this whole bloody line of questioning is about, isn't it Gandalf?" Bilbo growled. "Ring, ring, ring – you're like a damned door bell!"

"Well, I think it would be better for you if you left it behind."

"And it'd be better for you to mind your own business, busybody," Bilbo spat.

"Now wait a minute…."

"Kibitzer!"

"Bilbo, stop…"

"Interloper…buttinsky…meddler…quidnunc!"

It was then Gandalf noticed that Bilbo was reading from a thesaurus and the wizard quickly snapped the book from the Hobbit's grasp before he could utter another synonym. "Bilbo, there is no reason to get angry," Gandalf said as he flung the book over his shoulder.

"Well, if I am angry it's because of you!" Bilbo yelled. "After all, why shouldn't I keep it? It came to me, didn't it? I won it fair and square, didn't I? It has become precious to me. Yes that's it -- my precious-s-s-s."

Gandalf wiped the Hobbit spit from his scarf and replied with some concern, "It has been called precious before, but not by you."

"Blah, blah, blah…I'm not listening!" Bilbo said as he put his hands to his ears.

"Bilbo, you're acting childish."

"What's that? I can't hear you!"

"This is becoming ridiculous!"

Now Bilbo had become really upset. "You…you want it for yourself!"

"Nonsense, what would I do with the ring? Gold doesn't suit my skin tone."

"Just the same, you want it. Oh I can feel it; all your thoughts are bent on it!" Just then, the Hobbits hand wavered nervously over the pommel of his dagger.

"Bilbo Baggins!" Gandalf's voice boomed, and through a series of camera angles and lighting techniques, he grew large and menacing. "Do not take me for a cheating carnie with unbalanced balls and weighted milk bottles! I am not here to help you…I am here to hurt you! Scratch that, I mean, I am here to help and not hurt you."

Bilbo started sniveling and he hugged Gandalf's thighs (he was a Hobbit, after all, and Gandalf was quite tall). The wizard gingerly peeled Bilbo off his lower extremities before the book review board could change the rating of the story, and said softly, "Bilbo, why don't you trust me as you used to. Let it go, so we can get on with the real story."

Bilbo wiped the tears from his face, but then he got a queer look in his eyes. "The real story?" he hissed. "What do you mean, the real story?"

"Well…nothing…actually…I"

"No, you specifically stated 'the real story' as if I would no longer being playing a part in it!"

"Well, you've already played your part…"

"Oh, I see!" Bilbo yelled in fury, "I got to be the comic-hero in some silly children's book, but once the real epic arrives, it's 'sorry, dear Bilbo, we'll be trottin' you off to the pasture now like an old nag.' Time to put the senile Hobbit in the old fart's home, is it?"

"Bilbo Baggins!" Gandalf's voice erupted again, and through the magic of CGI, he became ten feet tall. "You selfish bastard! Having a book dealing entirely with you and your tedious little adventures wasn't good enough, was it? You had to be all…like that, didn't you? Well, I've had quite enough of this discussion, thank you very much!"

With that, there was a rumble of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning, followed by a pungent whiff of coleslaw, and the ring fell clattering to the floor. Within minutes, Gandalf handed a head of cabbage to a waiting dwarf, who loaded it gingerly onto the back of a horse-drawn wagon. "Bilbo will be back to normal in a few days," Gandalf whispered to the driver. "Be careful he doesn't roll around and get bruised. And for heaven's sake, make sure the bugs stay off of him. He'll look like bloody hell with cabbage aphid larva crawling out of him."

The dwarf grunted in assent and the wagon slowly passed down the hill and into the night. Satisfied with his work, Gandalf began humming a tune:

_The Road goes ever on and on  
The cabbage rolls at my command.  
How far ahead that head has gone,  
I don't really give a damn.  
Pursuing it both stalk and leaf,  
Until it joins some larger patch  
Where many cabbages doth meet,  
And wither then? Only if aphids hatch!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: The Bloody Aftermath of the Party **

**(Nightmare on Bagshot Row, Part III)**

Frodo had all too conveniently arrived late at Bag-end; in fact, it was well after everything that had transpired between Gandalf and Bilbo was finished, even though that tedious bit of dialogue ground up at least an hour of time in the novel.

"Gandalf, have you been eating sauerkraut?" Frodo said while holding his nose. "It smells like rotten cabbage in here."

"Never you mind, Frodo," Gandalf said with authority (and quite sure that cabbage punch lines had already been tossed off ad nauseum). "Bilbo has gone to visit the Elves. You'll find he's left you an envelope on the mantelpiece."

"Bilbo's gone? Then the epic has begun and we all must start acting seriously?"

"Well, the epic has begun…I can't vouch for the seriousness," Gandalf mumbled in embarrassment. "In any case, he's left you Bag End. The envelope contains his will…and the Ring."

"The Ring?"

"The Ring!"

"That's a funny thing."

"The Ring…a funny thing?"

"No, him leaving the Ring."

"Yes, a funny thing, him leaving the Ring."

"And what of 'Sting'?"

"'Sting' was a thing he did in fact bring."

"But won't I be using 'Sting' in 'Return of the King'?"

"Yes, you shall swing Sting in the 'King', but back to the bling..."

"Bling? You mean the Ring?"

"Yes the Ring...quite a nice bit of bling!"

"Schwing!"

"But keep it hidden in the house," Gandalf said sternly, "and do so quietly as a mouse."

"I shall hide it in the house," Frodo answered bravely, "and be as quiet as a mouse."

"Keep it locked inside a box, but be crafty like a fox."

"In the house, as a mouse; in a box, like a fox."

"Keep it secret, keep it safe…errr…far from the meddling eyes of hapless Hobbit waifs."

"Oh, now you've gone and wrecked the cadence!" Frodo frowned. "You had to get all Dickensian on me!"

"Dickens was not a poet," Gandalf replied indignantly.

"Who else uses a word like 'waif' but Dickens? Maybe Victor Hugo…"

"Never mind all that," Gandalf barked, "the Ring should not to be trifled with, so leave it the hell alone!"

"Alright, alright," Frodo replied with a roll of his eyes, "mellow, Gandalf, or you'll pop a stitch!"

Gandalf glared angrily at the impetuous Hobbit, who quickly stifled his sheepish grin. "I…I had better make my apologies to the guests," Frodo said, quickly changing the subject, "they'll have already gorged their way through the rest of the birthday supplies. I'll announce the reading of the will for tomorrow morning."

"Yes, you had better go do that." Gandalf growled, still irked at Frodo's impertinence. "I will see you again tomorrow before I am off."

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Another day dawned in the Shire, but the grass was not bejeweled with morning dew, rather, it was littered with nosey Hobbits, both the invited and uninvited, who greedily waited to purloin a precious piece of Bilbo Baggins' legendary legacy. No sooner had Frodo opened the door to Bag End than his home was overrun by a horde of Hobbitish invaders. Bilbo had left parcels and packages for nearly all of his friends and relations, and each gift was clearly and very shrewdly labeled for the intended victims:

_For Abelard Took, for his **VERY OWN**, from Bilbo_; on a pair of pajamas. The legend goes that Bilbo once shot a hobbit while in his pajamas. What a hobbit was doing in Bilbo's pajamas, Bilbo would never know. _Ba-dump-bump!_

_For Bawdy Brandybuck_, _for a** WOMAN IN YOUR POSITION**_, _from cousin Bilbo_; on a large carton containing one gross of Trojan condoms. Bawdy was very prolific, to say the least.

_For Milo Burrows_, _off the **TOP OF MY HEAD**_; on a box of hair. Bilbo always said Milo had the personality of a box of hair. Milo, of course, didn't get the joke.

_For Sancho Proudfoot from Bilbo_; on a box that contained a circular piece of leather embossed with the words 'to it' on it. It seems Sancho was always promising to do things for Bilbo, but then never got around to it. Now he had finally got 'a round to it' of his very own.

_For Lobelia Sackville-Baggins_, _as a **PRESENT**_; on a case of silver spoons. Bilbo had considered plopping a moldy old prune in a box for Lobelia, but considering he was certain she had stolen much of his silverware over the years, the spoons seemed appropriate and not as metaphorical.

There were many jesting gifts such as these, but practical ones as well. For instance, Gaffer Gamgee got a sack of taters, a suit of chainmail, and a Cockney-to-English Book of Translation. But the Sackville-Bagginses, never ones for tact or discretion, demanded that all this nonsense cease immediately, and that Frodo should get to the reading of the will.

"Hang tact and discretion!" Otho bellowed. "I demand that all this nonsense cease immediately!"

"Yeah, Frodo, get to the reading 'o' the will!" Lobelia harped. She looked strangely at Otho and added, "Blimey, I just 'ad a bit 'o' déjà vu."

Frodo dutifully read the will and emphasized the parts that stated in no uncertain terms that Frodo indeed was adopted by Bilbo and that Bag End and the entire contents of his estate should pass directly to Frodo in perpetuity, or until such time as he was stabbed by a Morgul blade and passed into wraithdom, was skewered by a troll spear, was stung to death by a talking arachnid, fell into a lake of boiling lava, or shuttled off this mortal coil in an elvish ship to Valinor, which is nowhere referenced directly in the Lord of the Rings, but adds a bit of scholarly jargon to the proceedings found herein.

"Alas, our hopes are dashed at last!" Otho opined.

"Sixty bleedin' years 'o' waitin' for Bilbo to croak, an' this is th' thanks what we get?" Lobelia grunted in disbelief. "I aint never 'eard of sooch a thing!"

"Now, now," Frodo said in an attempt to be civil, "you have a lovely set of spoons…"

"Spoons? Spoons!" Lobelia shrieked. "I could 'o' just as easily nicked the rest of 'em, given time."

Otho coughed loudly in the manner husbands always do when attempting to hide a wife's indiscretion. But Lobelia was on a roll, and she silenced Otho with a savage glare from under her beetling eyebrows. "You aint no Baggins no way," she spat at Frodo as the hairy mole on her chin quivered indignantly, "You're just a glorified Brandybuck, you are! Why don'cha go back with them queer folk up that-a-way and leave Bag End to respectable folk -- folk wi' proper breedin', like Otho 'n' me -- them that don't 'ang their 'aitches, nor drop their G's when speakin', if ye get my meanin'."

"Why Frodo, I do believe Lobelia is trying to insult you," Merry Brandybuck laughed.

"Either that, or she's trying out for the part of Eliza Doolittle in 'My Fair Lady', Peregrin Took added.

"'Em what's can't stand the heat should let bygones be bygones," Gaffer Gamgee said, totally oblivious to the conversation and speaking to a coat rack, "and a bird in the hand leaves a nasty mess, as I've always said."

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Later that evening when the guests had all been sent home with their gifts and the Sackville-Bagginses were forcibly removed as they attempted to carry off doors, windows, floorboards and various other fixtures from Bag End, Frodo collapsed in an exhausted heap into Bilbo's favorite reading chair. Unfortunately, just as he was nodding happy in the limbo of a languid nap (he would soon surrender to a contended snore), there was an inopportune knock at the door. The midnight hour had struck with dreary precision from Bilbo's anachronistic mantle clock, and Frodo was so weary, with vision hooded and bleary that he wished to his very core that whoever was at the door would get the hint and knock no more.

"Sod off, ungrateful bastards!" Frodo yelled, no longer interested in playing the part of the courteous host, but midnight's uninvited ghost maintained his solitary post with the noise he could not ignore -- the annoying knocking, the incessant rapping, the tenacious timbre of tap-tap-tapping that rattled his chamber door.

"Must be one of my _poe_ relations," Frodo said, and then uttered nothing more. For Frodo was loathe to surrender, did not want his comfy pose to end there, refused to have his toes froze there as they touched the cold, cold floor. He would not be getting up any more.

"Dash it all, Frodo," Gandalf howled from outside on the porch, "open up this damned door or I'll have you genetically altered to resemble a bloated raven…with pink feathers and a stench reminiscent of warm vomit…all of this and nothing more!"

And such was the mounting malice, the vituperative venom Gandalf bore, that Frodo begrudgingly opened his chamber door. My, was that wicked wizard sore!

"That will be quite enough of that rhyming," Gandalf grouched. Turning to Frodo, he added gravely, "I am going on a dangerous mission, dear Frodo, and I shan't return for quite some time."

"Dangerous mission? But you just got here!" Frodo whined in the childlike tone grumpy hobbits get when they haven't napped sufficiently. "Where are you going?"

"I will attempt to fold time and space by leaving and then reentering this room," he stated grimly. "In that way, I will skip at least a full chapter of this expository nonsense and ambling hobbitish dialogue so I can at last leave this miserable Shire for good!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Shadow of the Past**

BBC war correspondent Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque here in Hobbiton at _The Green Dragon Bar and Grill_. Rumors and allegations are still flying around this Hobbit haven about the strange disappearance of the eccentric Bilbo Baggins, a full three years after his tumultuous eleventieth birthday party. But amid the gossip and incessant backbiting is an undercurrent of fear brought on by events occurring outside this Halfling hamlet. There is talk of surly men running amok in the Southfarthing, orcs multiplying in the mountains and the tower of Barad-dur being reoccupied by its previous occupant, Sauron, a self-styled 'dark lord' whose ultimate goal is alleged to be the conquest of Middle-earth and dragging humanity into an age of darkness and lamentation. You know, the usual, stereotypical nonsense uttered by such cartoonish crackpots and petty-tyrant wannabes. Here is a conversation among various bar patrons prerecorded especially for this programme (or program, if you wish to edit out British superfluity):

"_Queer things you do hear these days," said Samwise Gamgee, leaning lazily against the hearth in The Green Dragon's public room._

"_Aye," said Ted Sandyman, the miller's son and local crank, "you do, if you bother to listen. But why take stock in such talk. As Leibniz said, 'this is the best of all possible worlds'."_

"_Well, I s'pose you could ignore it," Sam countered, "if you were a silly follower of that fallen optimist." _

"_What'der ye mean by that?" Sandyman huffed._

"_Just that Leibniz's sunny philosophy has been discounted by most folks, is all I'm sayin'," Sam said, stifling a yawn._

"_But the Shire is the best of all possible worlds, aint it?" Ted railed. "After all, the best possible world would 'ave the most good and the least evil, and 'at's the Shire as I sees it!"_

"_Take off the blinders, Dr. Pangloss!" Samwise mocked._

"_And what 'zactly is that s'posed to mean?" Ted sputtered._

"_Jus' that the great classic 'Candide' made a mockery of Leibniz. Voltaire would laugh at your naivety, and I do likewise – HAH!" Sam snapped._

"_Enough 'o' that Philosophizin', you two," Daddy Proudfoot yelled, and stood up with his beer mug raised. "Lookie here, is this here mug 'alf full or 'alf empty?" Proudfoot promptly drained the glass and plopped it loudly back on the table. "Near as I can tell, it's done gone!"_

_There was general laughter and hoots from the various rustic hobbits bored enough to listen to a debate on 18__th__ century philosophy. _

_Not to be silenced, Sam returned to his original concern. "But I hear tell of orcs gatherin' far off in the mountains, and elves passing west down the East Road." Sam fell silent for a moment, wondering to himself why they called it the 'East Road' when nobody ever went that way._

"_What should we care about what 'appens beyond our borders?" Sandyman sneered. "Don't go a' lookin' fer trouble and none'll come to ye, is my motto."_

"_But our Samwise here has a point, and not just the one on top of his pointed head," Folco Boffin laughed. "There's been all sorts of talk of unsavory sorts lurkin' about."_

"_Aye," Daddy Proudfoot grunted between burps, "there's all them Dwarves…"_

"_Never trust a Dwarf," Folco said, shaking his head in agreement, "too tall for their own good."_

"_I saw one once nearly four-foot-eleven!" Proudfoot added in disgust._

"_But my point," Samwise said firmly, trying desperately to maintain his point of view, 'is that there are things happening -- great and terrible things -- beyond our borders. Mr. Baggins, him that I work for, he was just sayin' the other day…" _

"_Frodo Baggins is crackin' just like that ol' Bilbo Baggins was cracked," Ted rudely interrupted. "If that's where you get your news froom, then you'd might as well be readin' the tabloids. Three-headed calfs and images of Elvis Presley on 'tater chips -- that's all they're good for! I say, just stick to the Shire and don't go stickin' your feet elsewheres, lest you end up steppin' in shite!"_

Shite indeed! But aside from xenophobes and isolationists like Ted Sandyman, the fact remains that a revived Mordor represents a real fear among many local citizens, no matter how vague a notion they have of geography, politics or grammar and syntax. With an exclusive live report from the borders of the black lands of Mordor, we have military analyst Major Tom Bowie interviewing that elusive and quirky character, Gollum, newly escaped from Barad-dur.

"Can you hear me Major Tom?"

"Can You hear me Major Tom?"

"_This is Major Tom to ground control. Yes, I can hear you. __Today we are interviewing that most famous of tragic-comic villains, Gollum. Ummm...excuse me, Mr. Gollum, would you mind coming down from that tree and talk to us?"__  
_  
**Gollum:** _What does it wants, eh? Nasty Dark Elfses, we hates them._

**Major Tom:** _Ummm....We'd like to talk to you, to get your side of the story. _

**Gollum:** _Nasty, tricksy Dark Elfses wants to put magic ropses on us...it burns us, it _

_fr-e-e-e-e-zes!_ *gollum*

**Major Tom:** _No...no ropes. I just want to talk. _

**Gollum:** _Just wants a talk, eh preciousss?_ *gollum* _Then whats it got in it handses, eh? Looks like nasty Elfses' ropses to me! _

**Major Tom:** _Errr...This is a mic and a mic cord, not a rope._

**Gollum:** _Mike? What's Mikes, precious?_

**Major Tom:** _Mi-cro-phone. It's to talk into_.

**Gollum:** *Rolls eyes* _Well, why doesn't tricksy Dark Elfses says whats it means, eh? We can't reads minds, can we, preciousss?_

*Creeps sinuously down tree trunk head first*

**Major Tom:** _That's better. Now, Mr. Gollum, what would you like to say to our viewers?_

**Gollum:** _S-s-s-s-s! Where's these viewers, eh? You means to tricks us!_ *gollum* _We knows it has trickses for us all the time!_

**Smeagol:** _No, nice Elfses wants our story. Nice Elfses not like effeminate Legolas in tights. Oh how we hates him! _

**Gollum:** _Legolas!_ *shivers* _Garn! Never says that name again! Worser than fat, stupid hobbitses, my precious, worser!_

**Major Tom:** _Ummm...Would you two mind pulling yourself together and get back to the interview? _

**Gollum:** _Eh? We never left. You says come and we comes! Silly Elfses! _

**Smeagol:** _Praps he means we sits here and chats with it a bitsy, my preciousss. It likes riddles, praps it does, does it? _

**Major Tom:** _Ummm...No, I don't care for riddles. I lack the patience._

**Gollum:** _Does it find them hard? Does it find them crunchably, scrunchably hard? Chestnuts! It must have a competition with us, my preciousss. If precious asks, and it don't answer, we eats it! _

**Major Tom:** *Fingers the pommel of his dagger* _They'll be no eating of anyone, thank you. And I'll ask the questions! _

**Smeagol:** _If it asks us, and we doesn't answer, then we does what it wants, eh? _

**Major Tom:** *Roll his eyes and sighs* _No, I want to ask questions about you and your...ummm...better half...and you just answer._

**Gollum:** *Frowns* _We sees no fun in that, my preciousss! It doesn't wants to follow rules! Cheats! Cheats! Tricksy Dark Elfses, we hates him forever! _

**Major Tom:** *Bites his lip* _Look, I am not a Dark Elfeses...errr…Elf._

**Smeagol:** _Forgives him, nice Master Darksies, preciousss has been beside himself since we lost our birthday present. _

**Gollum:** _Bah, Bagginses! We hates them, preciousss, hates them forever!_ *gollum*

**Major Tom:** _Yes, yes...we hates them...ummm...I mean, you hates...hate...them. We know that part of the story already... _

**Gollum:** *Eyes squint angrily and a snarl crosses his lip*_ Ss-ss-ss....How does it knows our story, eh precious? Unless it has hobbitses as friends, praps? Yesss, my precious, nasty hobbitses and elfsies as friends!_

**Major Tom:** _Actually, I despise Hobbits. Almost as much as this interview. Ummm...would you mind not gnawing on my microphone!_

**Smeagol:** *Spits and grimaces* _Mean Master Darksies tries to poison us with Elfses' technology! We are starving, preciousss, starving! And no Academy Awardses nominations for poor, tired Smeagol!_

**Gollum:** _We tolds you the Master was bad, my precious!_ *gollum* _Fat, stupid Jackson with bad hairses and crumply tuxes! Only thinks of itselves, never for the preciousss!_

**Major Tom: **_And that's it for now. This is Major Tom Bowie, reporting for the BBC from the hinterlands of Mordor. Back to you, ground control._

**Smeagol:** _Hey! Where's Master Darksies going to, we wonders? Yes, we wondersss._

**Gollum:** _Never you mind smelly Elfses, my preciousss. But we are hungry, what say we go get some nice fish and chipses?_

**Smeagol:** _Bleah! No nasty chipses. We wants rings...onion rings with fishes, my preciousss._

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Frodo was just leaning back into his easy chair when another knock rattled the door. Realizing he would never get his nap, Frodo grumbled curses under his breath and went to open the door. There in the darkness stood a wild-eyed Gandalf, breathing heavily and all disheveled, with leaves and twigs in his frazzled hair and his robes stained with mud.

"Is it secret? Is it safe?" the wizard heaved in a heavy whisper.

"What are you talking about?" Frodo griped irritably. "You just left not more than a moment ago!"

"No I haven't," Gandalf gasped as he forced his way in. "It is three years hence from our dialogue in Chapter Five.

"No wonder why I'm so tired," Frodo replied rather sarcastically.

"Frodo, the Shire is no longer safe," Gandalf wheezed with urgency. "We must leave immediately."

"Wait a moment…what's this 'we' stuff?" Frodo asked.

"The Ring," the wizard gasped, "Sauron knows it's in the Shire!"

"And how would he know such a thing?" Frodo hissed with growing annoyance.

"Well…you see…" Gandalf answered haltingly, "there was this barmaid down in Gondor…"

"And?"

"Well, I was rather drunk, and she had such nice dark hair and a dark complexion…"

"Yes?"

"How did I know she was an Orc…"

"Wait…you had sex…with an Orc?"

"Well, I'm not proud of it. Besides, I was very drunk at the time…"

"In any case, how did this Orc come to find out about the Shire?"

"Well, in the throes of passion, I might have mentioned your name…"

"My name! In the throes of passion?"

"…And your address…"

"My address!"

"…your facial description, hair color, and geneology…"

"Oh Gandalf, this is terrible!" Frodo cried

"Yes, I never even got her name and number," Gandalf sighed wistfully.

"Forget all that!" Frodo snapped. "What'll I do, Gandalf? What'll I do!"

"Well, it might all be a big mistake," Gandalf muttered in confusion.

"What? All of Mordor will soon be pounding at my door, and it might be a mistake?"

"Yes, sadly. It all hinges upon whether the Ring you have is the Ring that I think it is."

"How will you be able to tell?" Frodo pleaded.

"Give me the Ring," Gandalf ordered.

Reluctantly, Frodo removed the ring, and the fine gold chain it was attached to, from around his neck. With much hesitation, he slowly handed it to Gandalf. The Ring felt heavy, like a lump of lead. Without warning, Gandalf tossed the Ring nonchalantly into the fireplace.

"What the hell are you doing?" Frodo shrieked. "I just bought that ring! It cost me 500 pounds!"

"Wait, that wasn't Bilbo's Ring?" Gandalf said in shock.

"No, damn it! You asked for a ring – you didn't say Bilbo's Ring."

"Oh…sorry…well then, where is Bilbo's Ring?"

"I've kept it hidden, like you asked." Frodo sobbed as he watched his expensive jewelry melt in the fire. "You remember: in the house as a mouse, in a box like a fox?"

"I didn't think you'd take me literally," Gandalf said in his defense.

"Hold on," Frodo grumbled in defeat, "I'll go get it."

Frodo solemnly returned and handed Gandalf Bilbo's Ring, and once again the wizard tossed it into the fire. Then, after a few minutes, the wizard took a pair of iron tongs and carefully lifted the Ring from the flaming embers. "Go ahead, take it," Gandalf said reassuringly to Frodo. "It's quite cool."

"If it's quite cool, why are you holding it with tongs?"

"Because I had to grab it from the fire," Gandalf replied.

"Oh no, I'm not falling for that old trick," Frodo said stubbornly. "I've already been fooled by someone asking me if I wanted to see a match burn twice!"

"I assure you, you will not be burned!" Gandalf said with indignance.

"Well if it won't burn, then why don't you take it?" Frodo said, eyeing the wizard slyly.

"I cannot take this thing, dear Frodo," Gandalf answered with a sad look, the pain lining his weathered face, "for through me it would wield a power too great and terrible to imagine!"

Frodo shook his head, but finally complied due the wizard's sincerity. "Alright, let me have it."

The Ring dropped into Frodo's palm and immediately there was an intense searing pain as the red-hot Ring scorched the Hobbit's hand.

"You bastard!" Frodo shrieked as the Ring dropped to the table.

"Oh, I do love that bit!" Gandalf giggled madly, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. "I GOTCHA!"

After several apologies, Gandalf smeared some balm of aloe and acanthus on Frodo's burn, and the Hobbit felt a bit better. Gandalf also gave Frodo a shot of miruvor, the cordial of Imladris, and the Hobbit became downright cheerful again. When things had got back to normal, Gandalf said, "Now Frodo, take up the Ring and read to me any inscription you might find." The wizard's concern was evident, and he turned away, consumed in anxiety.

Frodo picked up the Ring and immediately screamed as the Ring burned the tips of his fingers. Gandalf tried stifling a snicker with his back turned to Frodo, but he could not hold it in, and he guffawed loudly. "Sorry, Frodo, I just couldn't help myself. You Hobbits are such trusting suckers."

"Yes, it's all very funny…ha-ha-ha," Frodo scowled while blowing on his tender fingers.

Gandalf sighed in satisfaction, but then became serious. "Now, please read the inscription. And you don't have to pick it up from the table."

Frodo peered intently at the Ring, and to his amazement, a bold script suddenly became visible around the inside of the band. "It says, '_I sailed on the Maid of the Mist, Niagara Falls, Ontario, 1979'_."

"It says WHAT?" Gandalf said as he wheeled about in amazment.

"GOTCHA!" Frodo said with a pleased smile. "Actually, it's written in an Elvish script, although I don't understand the language."

"There are few who can," Gandalf said somberly, "for it is the Black Speech of Mordor."

"What, do you mean like Ebonics?" Frodo asked.

"No, fool!" Gandalf growled, "It is the harsh and grating tongue of Sauron himself."

"Sauron's got a tongue? I thought he was just a great eye."

"That'll do, dolt, that'll do," Gandalf said menacingly, and Frodo looked down quickly. "It is the corporate slogan of Mordor, and I shall recite it in the common tongue, as I won't utter the Black Speech here:

**_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,  
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them._**

"It's quite catchy, isn't it?" Frodo murmured, very impressed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: Three's a Crowd, Particularly With Four**

And so, Frodo, Samwise, Merry and Pippin set off for Bree.

" 'Old on, we just lost near an 'ole chapter somewheres!" Sam said disconcertedly, looking back over his shoulder as if he'd find the missing pages strewn behind him down the path.

"Blame Gandalf," Frodo grumbled. "He was in such a hurry to leave the Shire –and 'those damnable, jabbering Hobbits,' as he put it -- that he's folded time and space again. The whole time/space continuum must be completely out of sorts with his meddling."

"Well, I'm sure I don't know 'bout foldin' condominiums and such, but 'es gone and made me forget to pack my 'taters," Sam sobbed. "I feel…I feel…_decapotatoed_."

"Just think how badly Fredegar Bolger feels!" Merry sighed.

"What do you mean?" Frodo asked.

"Fatty's big scene," Pippin said, taking up for Merry. "The whole Crickhallow sequence -- It was all the poor blighter had!"

"Oh, Fatty Bolger will be fine," Frodo said with a nonchalant wave. "He'll have a bestseller when they publish his 'Lockholes Prison Diet' book."

"Still, it's rather beastly to edit him completely out of the story." Merry griped.

"Oh, like they won't edit that whole thing out of the movie anyway," Frodo countered, rolling his eyes.

"I agree with Merry," Pippin piped in, "it is beastly, and no way to treat a fellow conspirator, and a jolly Hobbit as well!"

"Oh all right, all right," Frodo grumbled. "CUE FATTY!"

_*A grossly obese Hobbit takes a deep breath and blows an off-key, spit-splattered blast from a goat's horn*_

"Well, I guess that will have to do," Merry muttered.

"Right, off we go," Frodo said forcefully.

"Just a moment," Pippin said in a mix of stubbornness and confusion, "where exactly are we in the story at this moment? With all this folding of time and space, I'm at a bit of a loss as to what we should be doing next."

"Yes, have we just left Hobbiton and are now wistfully watching as the town lights fade from view?" Merry asked.

"Or have we already crossed on the Buckleberry Ferry?" Pippin added.

"You said 'ferry'," Sam snickered.

Pippin ignored Sam, and continued, "Really, dear Frodo, this is all too confusing."

"What about Gildor and the Elves, Mister Frodo?" Sam interrupted, finally adding something pertinent to the discussion, "I'd dearly love to see the Elves."

Frodo rolled his eyes and replied, "You and your Elf fixation, Sam! It's really rather gay."

"Not that there is anything wrong with that," Merry said in a politically correct manner.

"No, not that there is anything wrong with that," Frodo replied sheepishly, realizing he had crossed a modern, revisionist boundary. "In any case, we have just left Gildor and the Elves and are now trying to find a way to elude the snuffling Black Riders."

"Snuffling? What, do they 'ave an 'ead cold?" Sam asked somberly, bitterly disappointed in missing out on the Elves (not that there's anything wrong with that).

"No, I believe they are evil servants of Sauron trying to catch our scent," Frodo answered.

Sam burped a bit and wished he hadn't eaten an onion at lunch. "Well, what if we 'ead into the Ol' Forest what's right ahead of us there."

"Oh, that's a wicked place," Merry said with a shiver. "We Brandybucks had to plant a giant hedge to keep the trees out."

"Planting a hedge to keep out the trees?" Pippin scoffed. "Isn't that like planting flowers to keep out the bees?"

"That's a rather weak analogy," Merry grimaced.

"It was the rhyme I was going for," Pippin replied indignantly.

"Anyway, the hedge DOES keep out the trees! And these are no ordinary trees," Merry said and his voice fell to a fearful whisper, "they move about on their own and talk in longwinded oratory!"

"Ooooh! Tha' is frightenin'," Sam said while biting his fingernails nervously. "I was never one for speechifyin'. I'm like me dad, the Gaffer, in that sense. We are Hobbits of few words, and the less said the more's the better…"

"That'll be enough of that, Samwise," Frodo said sternly, heading off a certain Gamgee ramble. "Now, verbose trees or not, we'll have to go through the Old Forest, Merry. It's the only way we can thwart the Black Riders."

And so, the four Hobbits passed through a conveniently placed door in the hedge, reflected momentarily on the charred lawn of the Bonfire Glade, and then made their way ever so carefully into the preternatural darkness of the Old Forest. It is said that the Old Forest was the last bastion of a prehistoric wood stretching from the North Downs all the way down to Fangorn, adjacent to the mythical land of Rohan -- which really did not exist according to most Hobbitish cartographers, who preferred to leave their maps completely blank below the fringes of the Southfarthing. Aside from the fundamental flaw in Hobbit geography, the ancient forest canopy was said to allow a squirrel to leave its droppings from '_here to Timbuck-two_', a Halfling adage for any indeterminate distance outside Shire reckoning (The Timbucks were a pair of Hobbit pioneers who traveled to the far south and were never heard from again). But at this moment, the Hobbits wished they were indeed in Timbuck-two rather than in the leafy clutches of the sinuous and strange Old Forest.

"Errr…Mister Frodo," Sam whispered in trepidation, "Mightn't we fold space 'n' time at this here juncture 'o' th' story? We did miss 'aving a bowl of fried mushrooms at Farmer Maggot's!"

"Mushrooms!" Pippin squealed with glee.

"No, I'm afraid that's not possible," Frodo replied glumly and the entire troop of Hobbits sagged noticeably. "Gandalf is off on one of his errands again. He's gone to see the leader of his order, Saruman the White."

"Useless wizards," Sam grumbled, "never around when you need one. Always there to accuse you of droppin' the eaves, of course, but when there's real trouble -- POOF! They're up and gone."

"Yes, Bilbo had the same trouble with Gandalf," Frodo agreed. "He's not very reliable."

"Well, we'll just have to muddle through without him," Merry said resolutely. "Now, do be careful, the forest paths are treacherous – they shift without prior notice – and the trees are mighty cranky."

"Trees…cranky?" Pippin laughed. "Oh, I think their _bark_ is worse than their bite!"

Suddenly, a huge bough came crashing down directly in front of the Hobbits.

"No tree jokes!" Merry whispered angrily. "The forest has an inferiority complex."

Pippin rolled his eyes. "Well, psychology is not my _branch_ of study, but perhaps we can find the _root_ cause of the tree's schizotypal behavior."

Another huge bough fell with a monstrous cracking and swoosh behind them.

"Pippin, stop it!" Merry hissed.

"Son of a _beech, _that was close!" Pippin chuckled, "Cranky tree indeed! Must have been a _crabapple_."

Then all the trees began swaying madly and the air was filled with cracking and groaning and hissing.

"Now you've gone and done it, Pippin!" Frodo yelled. "Quickly, down the path!"

The Hobbits ran for quite a long time, for what seemed to be hours, but every time they tried to go east they found themselves pushed inexorably southward by the subtle machinations of the deceptive trees. Meandering paths crisscrossed and curved in circuitous convolutions, disappearing and reappearing, leaving devious dead ends and beguiling boulevards of broken dreams. At last, they found themselves on the wending and wild bank of the Withywindle (meaning in Elvish 'a river, just a river, nothing more or less than a river, not a brook or stream or creek, but just a river').

"That's it for me," Merry sighed in defeat, "I am dead tired."

"Me too!" Pippin gasped with a mighty yawn. "I think I'll take a nap against this willow."

"I don't like the look 'o' that there willow," Sam mumbled dumbly, drowsily shooing away the flies from his face, "it's like it's singin' a lullerbye."

"Don't be silly, Sam," Frodo said while his head lolled lazily, "it's just very hot, and we've walked so far…" But Frodo began to doze in midsentence.

"Just the same," Sam stammered, trying vainly to round up the ponies, "it's singin' – forcin' us to sleep."

"No, Sam, I think we've just hit a lull in the story," Merry said as he leaned against the willow next to Pippin, "there hasn't been a punchline for several sentences…" But Merry, too, succumbed to sleep.

Sam smacked his lips stupidly and tried in vain to keep his eyes open. He must've fallen asleep, he couldn't tell for how long, but he was roused awake by frightened shrieks from Merry and Pippin. Sam blearily staggered to his feet and saw that the dastardly willow had trapped the two Hobbits in a twisted tangle of roots.

"Mister Frodo, Mister Frodo!" Sam yelled, shaking Frodo from sleep. "That bad ol' willow is eatin' Master Pippin and Master Merry!"

"You needn't be so formal in an emergency," Frodo yawned irritably as he lazily lifted himself up on his elbows. "What are you on about now?"

"Mister Frodo, the willow is eatin' Merry and Pippin!"

Another yelp from Pippin punctuated Sam's point, and Frodo and Sam staggered up the bank of the river to where the two engulfed Hobbits laid.

"Well, this is a fine mess, and make no mistake," Sam grumbled.

"I'll say," Frodo nodded. "One doesn't usually see this carnivorous behavior in _Salix sepulcralis _or _Salix alba. _That is usually reserved for primitive plants like the _Dionaea muscipula_ or the _Heliamphora chimantesis_ – the Venus flytrap or pitcher plants."

"Stop with your Elvish education, Frodo!" Merry screamed as the restrictive roots wrapped their tendrils tighter around the struggling Hobbit. "Get us the hell out of here!"

"Oh, what'll we do, Mister Frodo?" Sam cried. "What'll we do!"

_**We interrupt this stunning turn of events to bring you an exclusive report from BBC War Correspondent Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque in Rohan…**_

"B.U.R. Picaresque here in the undulating meadows of the embattled horse-country of Rohan. We've left our recent coverage in the Shire to get closer to the action further south – that, and according to the latest polls, the viewing audience doesn't give a rat's hairy patoot for the humdrum happenings in the tawdry Shire. But what of Rohan? There have been scattered reports of black market horse sales to Mordor, and, even more troubling, the country's mumbling monarch, Théoden – a modern Anglicization of the Old English _ðeoden, _cognate with the Old Norse _þjóðann_, which means, basically 'king', and therefore Theoden is really 'King the King' – is said to no longer rule this pseudo-Anglo-Saxon enclave, and has been literally drugged and enslaved by his 'trusted' advisor, one Grima Wormtongue, who is here to answer these allegations."

**B.U.R. Picaresque:** _Good evening, Mr. Wormtongue! _

**Grima Wormtongue:** *Looking rather incredulous* _Good? For whom? When you say "good" are you referring to a moral state? Or are you merely satisfied in the fact that one of your enemies has been poisoned? _

**BURP:** _Ummm....well, it is a pleasant evening. _

**GW:** *Sulks silently*

**BURP:** _Okay then, Mr. Wormtongue... _

**GW:** _It's Grima! Only my enemies would use such a horrid and utterly inapt title as Wormtongue! And they're out there, believe me. Lurking about like vultures waiting for the kill. Vultures and gossips! whispering, yes they're whispering, They're doing so even now, I am sure. And after all I've done for Rohan! Here am I, a mere servant of my masters...errr...master...singular....heh....move on, please._

**BURP:** _Ummm....right....Let's get to the point, shall we? There's has been much talk about treason.._.

**GW: **_Yes treason! Can you believe that ungrateful Eomer? Ever slinking about causing havoc with his damnable horses! Horses, horses, horses...Mearas, Mearas, Mearas....everywhere! I'm sick to death of the smell of horses and the traitors that ride them! Eomer the pious! Eomer the faithful! Eomer ever the fly in the ointment, wrecking our plans...errr...Saruman's plans....evil....plans...not my plans...I don't know where you got that idea from._

**BURP: **_Hmmm...When I spoke of treason, I meant yours. _

**GW:** *Wipes sweat from brow and chuckles* _My? Treason? I am sure I do not know what you're talking about. _

**BURP: **_Well, it seems that Theoden was rather hale and robust until you became his...ummm....what exactly is your title? _

**GW:** *Sticks nose up with an air of indignance* _As I stated, I am but a mere servant of the king. But our majesty has recently given me the title of Grima, High Exalted Protector of the Realm, Lord Counselor Extraordinaire and Grand Vizier of all Matters Great and Small -- the First -- it's hereditary._

**BURP:** _Impressive. The King gave you that title? _

**GW:** _Certainly! Why wouldn't he? I have the edict right here!_ *Pulls out an embossed parchment with title in gold signed with King's scrawl and royal stamp*

**BURP:** *Shrugs* _Nice. Perhaps you should frame... _

**GW:** _Frame? Frame! I haven't framed anyone! Eomer deserved his banishment! I was following the will of the King. I have the edict right here... _

**BURP:** _Errr...that won't be necessary. Now let's get back to YOUR treason._

**GW:** *Bites his lip pensively* _No...I believe you are wrong. Define treason. Who exactly am I being treasonous against? Certainly not my master._

**BURP:** _Ahhh, but that's it, Grima: who exactly is your master? _

**GW:** *Taps table, hums nervously* _Well, isn't it obvious?_

**BURP:** _Obviously not._

**GW:** _Yes, obviously not! And there you have it. _

**BURP:** _Huh? Have what? _

**GW:** _Have it! If you're not going to pay attention, I will stop answering your gossip-laden allegations! _

**BURP:** *Rolls eyes* _There is talk about you poisoning the King. _

**GW:** _Again with the gossip! Look, the King is a sick man; certainly he needs medication, but he is not being poisoned! If he were being poisoned, don't you think I would know about it? _

**BURP: **_Yes, it seems he was quite robust until you came to power. _

**GW:** _Power? I have no power except for what the King has labored me with! It's a tough job wielding the power from behind the throne...I mean behind the king...for the king, behind him...following him...of course. _

**BURP:** _And what of Saruman? _

**GW:** *Upper lip quivers, starts sweating profusely* _Why, I've never heard of that wizard! _

**BURP:** _Then how do you know he's a wizard? _

**GW:** _Who is a wizard?_

**BURP:** _The wizard Saruman! _

**GW:** _Oh...that Saruman! Nice fellow. Loves Rohan. Great ally and beloved master...of colors...master of colors...always well dressed, don't you know. _

**BURP: **_There is talk that you are his mole. _

**GW:** _Well, we can rule that out right now. Moles are small mammals that live underground and have poor eyesight. Obviously I am not a mole. The whole idea is preposterous! _

**BURP:** _What I mean is a mole: a traitorous spy hidden in the enemy camp!_

**GW:** _That's downright silly! I don't believe moles have the wherewithal to spy. And who would they spy on? Badgers?_

**BURP:** *Rolls eyes again* _This is getting us nowhere! _

**GW:** _Precisely my thought, After all, the good Professor despised analogies, so making sinister spies out of small, subterranean mammals would be like._..

**BURP:** _Making mountains out of molehills? _

**GW:** _Precisely! Oh, would you like some nice herbal tea? I've just brewed a pot for His Majesty..._

_**We now return you to our regularly scheduled program, already in progress…**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: In the House of an 'Intentional Enigma' that 'Represents the Spirit of the Vanishing Oxford and Berkshire Countrysides,' but is in No Way Allegorical **

**(A Love Story, Part I)**

When we last left our sleepy little heroes, they had run afoul of Old Man Willow, yet another incident that spawned a famous Hobbit idiom: 'on the huorn of a dilemma'. Merry and Pippin were about to be completely engulfed in the tentacular embrace of Willow's hyperactive root ball, while Frodo and Sam were left to beat about the bush, at a loss as to how they might solve this knotty problem.

"Shall we burn the beastly tree down, Mister Frodo?" Sam asked as he gathered some kindling.

"No, no…" Frodo frowned, "I don't see how turning Merry and Pippin into Hobbit Flambé will serve our purposes."

"If I only 'ad some rope," Sam cried, having dropped the kindling and now hopelessly rummaging through his half-empty pack (or half-full pack, as Sam was a closet optimist).

"Rope? Rope! What bloody good will rope do us now?" Frodo jeered. "What are you going to do, hang the tree?"

"Well, no, I guess not," Sam muttered. "It's just that me dad, the Gaffer, was always one to stress 'aving a bit of rope about for an emergency."

Frodo was about to curse up a blue streak when his attention turned to an odd bit of singing coming from further down the Withywindle. And it was odd -- not just for the fact that there was someone actually singing in a haunted wood, but the lyrics were terrible as well:

_Hey now, ho now, _  
_Here comes Bombadil-o!_  
_I've changed me orientation _  
_Cos' I met a splendid fellow._  
_I never was one for to act _  
_As Eru did intend-o,_  
_Still I wear me yellow boots_  
_And sing in innuendo-o-o-o-o-o!_

"What in the 'ell is that?" Sam said, gaping at the outrageously dressed figure hopping and capering towards them in the clearing.

"Sam," Frodo whispered nervously, "what kind of mushrooms did you put in the omelet at breakfast?" But before Sam could answer, the creepy character began singing more nonsense:

_In the merry month of May, from my house I started,  
Left poor Fatty Lumpkin, nearly broken hearted,  
Salute the forest dear, and all me woodland brothers,  
Drank a pint of beer, my grief and tears to smother,  
Then off to reap the corn, leave off tending to the huorns,  
I cut a stout blackthorn, to banish wraith and goblin,  
In a brand new pair of clogs, I rattled o'er the bogs,  
And frightened all the wargs, on the rocky road to Hobbiton... _

_One, two, three, four, five --  
Hunt the hare and turn her  
Down the rocky road  
And all the ways to Hobbiton,  
Whack-fol-lol-de-rol._

_In Barrow Downs that night, I rested bones so weary,  
Started by daylight, next mornin' light and airy,  
Took a drop of the pure, to keep my heart from sinkin',  
That's Bombadil-o's cure, whene'er he's on for drinking.  
To see the Halflings smile, laughing all the while,  
At my curious style, 'twould set your heart a'bubblin'.  
They ax'd if I was odd, some psychedelic sod,  
Merely told them I was mod, on the rocky road to Hobbiton... _

_One, two, three, four, five --  
Hunt the hare and turn her  
Down the rocky road  
And all the ways to Hobbiton,  
Whack-fol-lol-de-rol._

And as with most rollicking pub sing-a-longs, Sam was soon tapping his feet, clapping and enthusiastically belting out the 'ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR-FIVE' chorus -- that is until he caught the eye of Frodo, who was scowling mightily at him.

"Oh…ummm…sorry, Mister Frodo…I got a bit carried away there," Sam said blushing. "Never could resist a jig!"

"Never mind all that," Frodo hissed through clenched teeth, "have you completely forgotten about poor Merry and Pippin? Anyway, I don't know why, but I think perhaps this queer gent can help us."

"Well, I feel better all ready," Sam said with a smile, which quickly faded as Frodo shot him another glare.

"Excuse me, Sir!" Frodo hollered to the pirouetting dervish. "I beg your pardon, but do you think you could help us?" And as the stranger skipped and sashayed nearer, Frodo gasped, "Just who or what in the Farthing are you?"

_Hey! Come merry dol! I'll ignore insinuations,_  
_I'm a jolly folly -- spritely personification_  
_Of wood and woad, tree and root, and grass upon the hill-o,_  
_But you can call me merry Tom – I'm old Tom Bombadil-o!_

"Tom Bombadil!" Frodo shouted in recognition. "My uncle Bilbo used to tell some…errrr…interesting stories about you from his old adventuring days."

_Hi Bilbo! Ho Bilbo! The Hobbitish James Bond-o,_  
_I met him once -- out east it was –_  
_At Beorn's time-share condo!_

"Yes, and you and the entwives saved the day at the Battle of Five Armies," Frodo recollected, shamelessly plugging the prequel to this story, 'Monty Python's The Hobbit' (available soon on eight-track tape and cassettes!). Regardless of the flagrant hype, Frodo considered that there was a necessity for maintaining 'conceptual continuity', as Frank Zappa termed it, although in Frank's case it was in reference to narrative in music and not speculative literature -- not to mention that Frodo had never heard of Zappa.

Sam impatiently nudged the musing Frodo and motioned over to the willow. "'Scuse me, Mister Frodo, but shouldn't we mention our problem?"

"Oh…yes…well, Tom…Master Bombadil…do you think you could help us?" Frodo stammered. "It seems our two companions have been eaten by that willow over yonder."

"Naught but that, eh?" Bombadil yawned, then he cracked his knuckles in the manner one would before cueing up a shot at billiards and sauntered nonchalantly over to Old Man Willow.

"Nasty bastards, these old trees," Tom grunted in distaste as he watched Merry's feet wiggle out from beneath the constricting roots. "Theses trees may look green on the outside, but their hearts are as black as badger shite -- rotten to the core they are." After a few moments of consideration, he shook his head glumly and said, "Well, that's that!"

With a shrug and a wink, Bombadil turned around and started capering and skipping back down the path from whence he came.

"Wait...please!" Frodo pleaded. "You're not just going to leave! Aren't you going to help us?"

_No, nay, never, friends, there's lunch that needs a' making._  
_Many thanks for the chat, but there's bread that needs a' baking!_  
_Good luck with your poor friends there, done et by Old Man Willow,_  
_If you get them out, look me up at the House of Bombadil-o._

"Well, if that don't beat all!" Sam grumbled in confustication as Bombadil disappeared through the hedges.

"Flighty chap," Frodo added sourly.

Suddenly a monstrous beaver, several hundred pounds with bristling hair glistening dark and dank, labored up the banks of the Withywindle. It stopped to glare at the Hobbits and hissed with its mammoth yellow incisors like blunted tusks displayed threateningly.

"Dam, 'ats one big beaver," Sam said and gulped in fear.

"It's as big as…as a bear!" Frodo murmured and backed away.

"Or a giant tree sloth," Sam added, but not sure why.

But then the beaver seemed to lose interest in Frodo and Sam, and scuttled -- well, it was too large to scuttle -- rather, it lumbered directly toward Old Man Willow. Stopping a few paces from the tree, the behemoth beaver waved its great, flat tail in the air menacingly and brought it down with a concussive blow, and the Hobbits nearly lost their footing from the aftershock. The Willow began quivering from the base of its massive bole to the tender tendril shoots far overhead atop its shaggy crown.

"The big beaver has frightened the tree!" Frodo cried without an inkling of innuendo.

"Must be a weeping willow," Sam said thoughtfully.

"No, you dolt!" Frodo replied, "Look -- at the willow's roots – they're receding! The beaver is freeing Merry and Pippin!"

No sooner had Frodo spoken than both the hapless Hobbits flew out from under the Willow as if they had been shot from a cannon…or an arbalest (no need to be anachronistic). Without further ado, the beaver turned away from the still shivering tree, nodded casually to Frodo, then slid back into the river with a tremendous splash and was gone.

"I shall never look at beavers quite the same again," Frodo said in awe.

"Pffft…like you ever did in the first place," Sam scoffed, but he was again silenced by Frodo's sharp glance.

"What…what just happened?" Merry said groggily as he staggered to his feet.

"Well, you see, Master Merry," Sam began, taking a deep breath, "Me and Mister Frodo here decided that burnin' down Old Man Willow might char you two up as well -- and me without my rope and all -- and then there was this odd feller in yellow boots and blue coat name of Bombadil who spent most of the time singin' and dancin' about, in a manner of speakin', and then he left to bake some bread for lunch, and this HUGE beaver as big as a bear or a giant tree sloth comes up from nowheres and scares the crap right out of Willow…well, not the crap really, but Master Pippin and yourself, if you'll pardon the expression -- and there you have it."

"Sam," Merry said incredulously, "what kind of mushrooms did you put in the omelet at breakfast?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine: In the House of an 'Intentional Enema'… **

**Yadda-yadda-yadda…In No Way Allegorical**

**(A Love Story, Part Two)**

The Hobbitish 'Gang of Four' were not really interested in a leftist cultural revolution as they wandered witlessly through the Old Forest; rather, simply having dinner weighed more heavily on their minds (and tweaked their tummies) than a bold coup d'état over the power apparatus of the Communist Party. After all, they were hopelessly lost, and they weren't even Chinese Marxists. After a several hour bungle through the jungle, the Hobbits literally blundered onto the path that led to the House of Tom Bombadil, an impressive Frank Lloyd Wright influenced edifice of wood and stone. The Prairie School architecture blended so seamlessly with the woodland environment that the Hobbits might well have unwittingly passed the house by if it weren't for the garden gnomes (all with blue jackets and yellow boots, of course) that marked the pathway to the portico. John Ruskin or William Morris would not have necessarily approved of the gnomes, which were at odds with the indigenous materials and natural ambiance of the house, but given Bombadil's kitschy fashion sense, it was amazing that there weren't plastic pink flamingos and abstract sculptural elements made of hubcaps and rusty iron tie-rods littering the landscape.

Bombadil was standing at the mission-style quarter-sawn oak door fitted with ebonized wrought iron strap hinges, clavos, catches and latches (for whatever reason, one must be very specific about describing doors in fan-fiction). He had his fists planted firmly against his hips and was tapping his boot impatiently, as if he had been awaiting the Hobbits' arrival for quite a long time:

_Hey-ho, the merry-o! Laggardly, lubberly louts!_  
_Ding-dong, dingleberry, Welcome to a coming out –_  
_Hush-a-bye me darlings,_  
_Pay no mind to what I'm on about!_

_Hey-ho and cheerio! No skeletons in the closet here!_  
_Ding-dong, dimplederry! Come as you are, m'dears –_  
_Rush-a-bye me darlings,_  
_But guests must enter through the rear!_

And Bombadil wasn't kidding, because he had just finished shellacking the parlor floor. The Hobbits made their way through the kitchen garden, following the delectable aromas that wafted through the open windows: freshly baked bread, pungent cheeses, sweet honeycombs, manicotti and Tiramisù (Tom was trying his hand at Italian cuisine). As they quickly filed in through the backdoor, the hungry Halflings were drawn ineluctably to a substantial trestle table laden with all sorts of provender, pastries and nosh. Tom, humming and hopping as usual, whisked down four rush-seated ladderback chairs that hung from pegs along the wall for the Hobbits, and then sat himself at a more ornate, finely turned Chippendale at one end of the table. At the other end of the table was a rough-hewn ash armchair of gigantic proportions, which loomed over the far side of the table like an impending threat.

Frodo gazed uneasily at the immense chair. "Who…who sits there?" he stuttered.

_The light of my days,_  
_And my partner in rhyme._  
_The curds in my whey,_  
_And lemon to my lime!_

"Oh, that's quite…fruity," Frodo said hesitantly, remembering Bilbo's description of the fair-haired Goldberry as a slim, wisp of a nymph. He glanced over at the chair again. "Seems like an awfully big seat for the River Daughter."

"River Daughter? Tom grunted and stuck out his tongue in disgust. "Goldberry!" he shouted, and then sang:

_Goldberry, Goldberry! Temptress and tart!_  
_She went astray and broke my heart!_  
_Goldberry, Goldberry! Mistress of distress!_  
_No longer will women cause me duress,_  
_I've given them up without lament --_  
_Given them up like treats at Lent --_  
_Goldberry, Goldberry! Played me like a pawn!_  
_Goldberry, Goldberry! Up and gone!_

"Oh…ummm…so sorry to hear that," Frodo fumbled, searching vainly for something comforting to say.

"No worries!" Tom said cheerfully with an unexpected wink and smile. "Please pass the butter. Would you like some salted herring to go with your Tiramisù?"

"No, no thank you," Frodo said with an expression like curdled milk.

But Frodo's glance settled back on the massive chair once again, and Tom followed his eyes. "Ah well, I suppose I shan't be able to keep it a secret much longer," Tom muttered irritably, "particularly in a parody of this nature." He took a deep breath and sighed, "The chair is Beorn's."

Frodo smiled wanly even as his face blanched white. Merry and Pippin had stopped eating and were looking down at their plates, not daring to look up. Only Sam continued eating with gusto. "Beorn," Sam said between chews, "she's a big woman then?"

"No, Samwise, my friend," Tom chuckled, "Beorn is not a woman…at least not in this relationship."

"Alrighty then," Sam burped and continued eating without any further notice of his friend's appalled looks.

"Sam, didn't you hear what Bombadil just said?" Merry, who was sitting next to the gormandizing Gamgee, whispered gingerly.

"Aye, I heard him, so what?" Sam answered aloud and then shoved a hardboiled egg in his mouth.

"Well, don't you find it shocking?"

"Nope," Sam said with a shrug, "I've had to deal with this type 'o' thing with Master Frodo for years."

"Samwise!" Frodo cried in embarrassment.

"Well, you do throw a hissy fit every time I talk to Rosie Cotton!" Sam replied sharply as he attempted to suck on a honeycomb.

"I…I do not!" Frodo shivered in rage.

"Now, now, we are all friends here," Tom laughed, "if Frodo wishes to keep his orientation a secret, then we should honor his wishes." He looked sympathetically at Frodo and added, "But it's not healthy."

"But…I am not gay!"

Merry rolled his eyes and Pippin spat out a bit of sweet potato.

"Well, I'm not damn it!"

"Denial!" Everyone at the table said in unison.

"Beorn acted the same way," Bombadil said with a sad sigh. "Poor chap, always skin-changing and shape-shifting – never quite sure who or what he was. First he was a bear, then a tree sloth -- even now he sometimes changes into a giant beaver when he gets uncomfortable with himself."

"Beorn…the Beaver?" Frodo muttered in confusion.

"Ah, 'sose it was Beorn that were the beaver what frightened the piss out 'o' Old Man Willow!" Sam shouted in delight, for he dearly loved beavers, as well as Elves (not that there's anything wrong with that).

"Yes, 'twas I that sent Beorn to your aid," Tom said with a twinkle in his eye. "That sort of thing gives him a purpose. I like to keep him happy. It's miserable around here when he gets all grumpy and ursine -- it's unbearable."

"And where is Beorn now?" Frodo asked quickly, glad that the subject had changed.

"For a big fella, he's actually quite shy," Tom smiled warmly, "which is why he is usually more comfortable interacting with animals."

"But what about you?" Merry interrupted. "How do you fit in…with…Beorn…" He suddenly tapered off as he realized the words hadn't come out quite right.

"Me?" Bombadil said with a shrug. "I'm an enigma."

"What, like in constipation relief?" Sam said rather stupidly.

"Not an enema, Sam," Frodo growled, still irritated at Sam trying to out him, "an enigma: something that baffles understanding and cannot be explained – an oddity of nature."

"Well, that's hit the nail on the head, if ever there was a head to nail, if you get me meaning," Sam analogized.

"In any case, you four aint traipsing about my forest to hear tall tales of Tom!" Bombadil said, just as keen as Frodo to change the subject. "Just what are you running from?"

"Snufflin' black riders, mostly," Sam answered offhandedly.

"Black riders, eh?" Tom said with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, we believe they are servants of the One Enemy…" Frodo said and then his voice fell to a hoarse whisper and he croaked, "…you know…Sauron!"

"Never met him, personally," Tom replied, misunderstanding Frodo, "but I heard tell he's a nasty bloke, from all accounts. Definitely not tree-friendly, and certainly not the type that's healthy for wee lil' Hobbits to associate with." But Bombadil suddenly squinted an eye shrewdly and stroked his beard. "Now, what would a blighter like Sauron be wanting with a few sexually ambiguous Hobbits? I haven't heard he's interested in breeding smaller Orcs, he usually prefers the bigger-the-better."

Frodo, not at all interested in where the conversation might be heading, blurted out, "It's the Ring! I have the One Ring!"

"Ah, so that's it!" Bombadil laughed with a strange gleam in his eyes. "Well, bring it out…let's see this Ring!"

Frodo was reluctant, but he brought out the Ring in spite of himself. Even more surprisingly, he found himself handing the Ring to Bombadil!

Tom held the Ring between two fingers and peered through it at Frodo as if he were gazing through a looking glass. "Hmmm…I don't see things differently from this perspective, although I'm sure it'll make a neat CGI effect." Tom chuckled. "Still, it was rather daft of Sauron to place all his power into the Ring, even for a fantasy story. He should've used an anvil or a boulder – not as portable." Then Bombadil spun the ring on the tip of his finger like a Harlem Globetrotter, flipped it nonchalantly in the air, and suddenly…POOF! It was gone!

Frodo gasped and quickly stood up, knocking his chair over in the process. "Where…where did it go?"

"Nowhere, silly, "Bombadil laughed and placed the Ring back in Frodo's shaking palm. Frodo stared down at the Ring in his outstretched hand and then he held it up nervously. "Wait a moment…" Frodo griped, "this isn't the One Ring!"

"Of course it is," Tom replied with a nervous smile.

"No, it is not," Frodo shot back. "The One Ring is gold, this is silver."

"Oh, that's just the lighting – it's terrible in the dining room!" Bombadil said, thinking quickly, "I usually have to do my needlepoint in the parlor."

"The One Ring does not have a pink quartz setting!"

"That's not quartz," Tom retorted indignantly, "it's tourmaline, and it's very rare in these parts." The flustered Bombadil suddenly added, "at least, it looks like tourmaline in the bad lighting of this room. Oh! How my eyes hurt from squinting!"

"The inscription says 'XOXOXOX T.B. FOR BEORN, ONE YEAR'," Frodo grumbled.

"Give him back his ring!"

All eyes turned to the shadows in the kitchen where the rumbling snarl of a voice had spoken.

"Give him back his Ring, Bombadil!" the voice growled so deeply that it rattled the silverware. Suddenly, a huge, bearded man entered into the light, glaring crossly at Tom with thick eyebrows like hairy, horizontal apostrophes emphasizing his demand.

"Oh, all right, Beorn, m'dear," Tom said with a roll of his eyes. "It was only a parlor trick. You know how I love making magic!"

Then he gave Beorn a knowing wink, who smirked in spite of his exasperation.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten: The Barrow Downs -- Where Up Takes Six Feet of Digging**

Bombadil insisted in no uncertain terms that the Hobbits spend the night. The Hobbits were, of course, uneasy at the prospect of sleeping in the queer Old Forest, but jolly old Tom reassured them they would be safe under his roof.

"Fear no nightly noise," Tom crooned comfortingly.

But even in the House of Bombadil the Hobbits were wracked with strange dreams and wrestled with fitful sleep, particularly since Bombadil and Beorn stayed up half the night singing 1970's love duets like 'Up Where We Belong' and 'Endless Love' (Beorn did a passable version of Joe Cocker, but his Diana Ross was _atrocious_). By the morning, the bleary-eyed Hobbits were more than ready to face the Nazgul or Sauron himself rather than spend another minute with Bombadil.

Tom was bitterly disappointed that the Hobbits would not be staying for dinner, as he was preparing some _linguine con calamari Bolognese_, with squid shipped fresh from a lake just below the western walls of Moria; but nevertheless, he cheerfully led Frodo and company to the very borders of the Old Forest. Before them stretched the misty, rolling meadows and gorse-laden hills of the Barrow Downs.

"Now, if you listen to Old Tom's advice, you'll hit the East Road in about a day's march," Bombadil imparted. "Keep to the grass up north a' ways, and don't you go a' meddling with them wicked wights, or pry into their houses; unless you got brass balls, which I never heard was a Hobbitish trait. If you do come upon a barrow, always pass to the west. Them wights are terrible with their left and right as they usually only got one arm to speak of."

The Hobbits bade Bomdadil farewell and dutifully followed his instructions. And for the early part of the day, the Hobbits made excellent time, eventually viewing the tree line of the distant East Road from a tall tumulus that overlooked much of the Downs. But, as with all things Hobbitish, the need for an extended lunch took precedence over any thought of danger. With the noonday sun shining hotly on them after a long march, the Hobbits sought shelter under the shade of a monolithic standing stone, which jutted up inexplicably from atop a flat tor that rose prominently from the Downs.

"It's quite phallic, isn't it?" Frodo murmured admiringly.

Merry peered sidelong at Samwise, who merely shrugged and held up his hand in a limp-wristed manner. Frodo turned around quickly, but Sam was quicker and brushed his upraised hand through his hair.

"Did you say something, Sam?" Frodo asked with an accusing rise of an eyebrow.

"Me, Mister Frodo?" Sam answered innocently. "No, I aint said naught since the last chapter. But I agree with your assessment of this here stone -- it is like a big prick, aint it?" And then Sam's eyes stared off in the distance, and his face adapted a profound look of intense concentration that came over him whenever he got poetic: "A titanic tadger rising rock hard from this trembling tumulus mound to consummate a celestial union with the trollope-y heavens." Sam gave Merry and Pippin a wink, and added, "I guess 'at's why they say there are black 'oles out in space."

Merry and Pippin snickered and Frodo scowled, but frivolity and merriment ceased as soon as the Hobbits got down to the serious business of lunch. They had a goodly supply of foodstuffs Sam had brought from the Shire, so naturally they ate themselves into a food coma. Several hours later, they awoke uneasily from a nap they never meant to take. By now, the sun was setting.

"Well, there's naught we can do about the nap," Samwise grumbled in irritation, "but I can still see the tree line along the road from here. As long as we head in that direction, we'll be _straight_, Mister Frodo."

"I guess the Barrow Downs isn't as bad as tales do tell," Frodo sighed in relief.

Without warning, there was a cry from offstage: "Cue the gloomy atmospherics!" and suddenly, the fog began rising on the Downs. It crept with insinuating misty fingers up the craggy tor where the Hobbits stood and draped grass and stone in a ghastly shroud of white.

"This fog's as thick as tater soup!" Sam cried in amazement.

"Don't you mean 'as thick as pea soup'?" Merry corrected.

"Naw," Sam said with a disgusted shake of his head, "pea soup gives me the runs somethin' awful. And a' sides, tater soup is more in keepin' with the plot – leastwise, as far as us Hobbits are concerned."

Without any further delay, or puns for that matter, the Hobbits speedily made their way down the hill and headed in what they believed to be the direction of the road; however, the uncanny fog blinded them: it confused their bearings, distances became distorted, and they found themselves walking in circles.

"We seem to be walking in circles," Pippin grumbled.

"I believe the narrator has already mentioned that," Merry rebuked. "Besides, "I think that standing stone has it in for us -- it's as if it were moving about to block our way. And have you noticed how cold it's gotten?"

Frodo gazed up at the imposing standing stone and mumbled, "It's almost…mesmerizing." But while Frodo was brazenly adoring the monolith, he had lost his friends, who had bumbled off into the mist without him. "Samwise…Merry?" Frodo cried anxiously, and he was answered by "Hallooo, Frodo!" somewhere off to the east.

Frodo stumbled off in the direction the call had come from, but when he arrived at the spot, the shouts came from further off and started to falter. "Where in the hell are you?" Frodo shouted angrily, but then he heard faint cries of alarm, and finally a muffled "Help!"

"Oh, where are you?" Frodo cried again.

"Here!" said a cold, harrowing voice that would have made even Aragorn wet his knickers.

Frodo bravely decided to run away, saving his valor for another day. Unfortunately, he was gripped by a hidden hand: as cold as a witch's bosom in a brass bra, with a grip tighter than Ernest Hemingway's sentence structure. Frodo swooned. His head swam. He fell. Darkness took him.

~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~

_We interrupt this ghastly sequence of unparalleled, Hemingwayesque terror so that we may segue somewhat unobtrusively into a wardrobe and scenery change._

This is BBC War Correspondent Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque, still here in Edoras, the dreary capital of war-weary Rohan. By means of some well-placed bribes, we've managed to sneak past the wily Grima Wormtongue to secure an exclusive interview with the King, Théoden, son of Thengel, son of Fengel, son of Folcwine, son of Folca, son of Walda, son of Brytta, son of Fréaláf Hildeson, et cetera, ad nauseam.

**B.U.R. Picaresque:** _Good evening, your majesty_.

*Silence*

**BURP:** _Ummm…your majesty?_

**King Théoden:** _Eh? Ahhhh grzzzt grmph_.

**BURP:** _I'm sorry, what was that?_

**KT:** _Eh? I s-a-a-a, ahhhh grzzzt grmph_.

**BURP:** _Excuse me, but could you speak up?_

**KT:** _I… greet you…_

**BURP:** _Well, thank you, milord. Here…let me adjust your drool cup._

**KT:** _Maybe you look for welcome…but truth to tell…_

**BURP:** _Yes?_

**KT:** _…that is…_

**BURP:** _'Truth to tell, that is'…what?_

**KT:** _Errr…doubtful._

**BURP:** _Okay._

**KT:** _You…you have ever been a herald of woe._

**BURP:** _Look, I don't make the news, I just report it!_

**KT:** _Troubles follow you like crows._

**BURP: **_Now, there's no need to be insulting._

**KT:** _But news from afar is seldom sooth._

**BURP:** _Sooth you say?_

**KT: **_Forsooth._

**BURP:** _What exactly do you mean?_

**KT:** _Lathspell I name thee…Ill-news is an ill guest._

**BURP:** _Well, it's obvious you haven't watched FOX or CNN lately. Now, your majesty, I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding…_

**KT:** _Where now the horse and the rider?_

**BURP:** _Please, your majesty, stay with me here…_

**KT:** _Where is the horn that was blowing?_

**BURP:** _Hmmm…you really are a few prongs short of a crown, aren't you? _*snaps his fingers* _Helloooo, anyone home?_

**KT:** _Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning?_

**BURP:** _Well, it seems somebody has been gathering smoke, and it's not from dead wood, obviously._

**KT:** I_'ve just wet myself and there isn't a thing you can do about it! I am the King, you know!_

**BURP:** _Oh, for the love of…_

**KT:** _Where is my Grima? I need a changing._

**BURP: **_This has been B.U.R. Picaresque, BBC news, reporting from Edoras. And now back to our regularly scheduled programme, already in progress. Oh good Lord, he's pissed on my shoes! Bad king! No gruel for you tonight!_

~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~

When Frodo awoke, he found himself lying on a cold stone slab. There was a stabbing pain in his arm where the invisible hand had clawed him, but he still managed to struggle upward to lean upon his elbows. Looking about him through the darkness, he knew all too well where he was: a cruel wight had dragged him down into a barrow! Well, isn't this just friggin' wonderful! he thought to himself. But as his eyes became accustomed to the dimness (characters in fantasies can somehow always see underground in the pitch black), he noticed that Sam, Merry and Pippin were laying unconscious to his right. They each lay on a slab, and they were robed in white satin nighties (where the Moody Blues perhaps got the song title "Wights in Night Satin'). Their hands were adorned with bejeweled rings, their heads were crowned in diadems and a sword lay at each of their feet.

From a vestibule or hallway to his left there rose a faint green emanation, a phosphorescent glow straight out of any 1950's B-grade Hollywood horror flick, which was still quite frightening to Frodo as the cinema had not arrived in the Shire as of yet. He heard bones rattling and skeletons scratching as they dragged their white knuckles across the stone floor towards him.

"What skullduggery is this?" Frodo hissed in a barely audible whisper.

Suddenly the rattling and scratching, crawling and scrawling began falling into a cadence, then the cadence into a regular rhythm, and the rhythm thrummed with a beat: scrawl-crawl-scratch-scratch-rattle-rattle-scratch, scrawl-crawl-scratch-scratch-rattle-rattle-scratch, scrawl-crawl-scratch-scratch-rattle-rattle-scratch, and an eerie, mournful voice began to sing in a low moan to the bony beat:

_There's a saying going 'round and I begin to think it's true__,  
It's awful hard to love someone, when they're rotting through and through.  
Once I had a lovin' ghoul, but now I start to wonder,  
Why I'm sad and lonely, cos' she's buried me six feet under._

_Won't somebody go and find my __ghoul and bring her to me?  
It's awful hard to decompose without a little sympathy.  
Once I had a loving ghoul, as good as any on the Downs,  
but since my deadhead left me, I'm the saddest wight around --_

_Because…_

From another room of the barrow came faint echoes of music that rapidly rose in timbre and tone until Frodo could make out an entire netherwordly ensemble – a hamstring quartet, perhaps, or an entire _Orc_estra: there were trombones and organs, tympanis and eardrums, nose flutes and jaw harps, not to mention the hairy bagpipes, all playing ragtime. And the ghostly voice belted out a banshee wail:

_I'm just a bag 'o' bones and everywhere I go,  
Cadavers are the part I'm playing.  
Paid for every bone dance, risen up by necromance --  
Ooh, what they're saying!_

_There will come a day when youth will pass away,  
What will they say about me?  
When the end comes I know,  
they'll say, "He was just a bag 'o' bones"--  
Life goes on without me…_

And then, to Frodo's surprise, a chorus line of skeletons burst into the room with arm bones locked together and kicking in unison so high he could see their metatarsals and phalanxes flailing in the air. And they were all singing with jawbones flapping out of time with the lyrics:

_Cos' I aint got NO BODY!  
No body cares for me, no body, no body cares for me!  
I'm so cold and stony -- c__old and stony, cold and stony --  
Won't some grave ghoul come take a chance with me…_

But before the skeletons could utter another refrain -- BOOM! There was a tremendous explosion and the roof of the barrow came crashing down. Frodo could see daylight streaming in from behind a monstrous beaver tail. Astride the giant beaver was none other than Tom Bombadil, who waved at Frodo and shouted, "That racket was loud enough to wake the dead, if you'll pardon the pun!"

And with one final bluesy note from a hidden sax, the wightish skeletons fell into crumpled heaps of bone and dust.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven: A Spree in Bree, Part I**

It was raining, as the special effects crew had gone on break and forgotten to turn off the gloomy atmospherics from Chapter Ten. The sopping-wet Hobbits stood before the gates of Bree, with its ramshackle wooden palisades encircling the muddy environs of the main town, which abutted the equally muddy Bree-Hill. Mud was, of course, Bree's chief export, partly because there was so much of it, and also because of its high clay content, which made admirable brick for the adobe structures of the Anasazi and Hopi tribes in Southwestern Dunland, an area long ruled by the white-supremacist Rohirrim, a nomadic band of mercenary Norsemen with obvious Anglo-Saxon traits, who acted as condottieri for the decadent and diminished Gondorion Empire. Through an imperialistic dogma of Manifest Destiny, the Rohirrim colonized and eventually overran Dunland, to the detriment of the native people…

"I thought that whole rambling, post-modern narrative shtick was played out in the previous 'Hobbit' parody," Frodo grumbled.

"Well, it has gotten us from the Barrow Downs all the way to Bree without several pages of interminable dialogue with Tom Bombadil," Merry sighed in relief.

"And all the walking, let's not forget all the miles of walking," Sam added.

"Good points," Frodo replied, now equally relieved. "Perhaps the narrator can kindly get us past the page upon page of in-depth descriptions of the 'Big Folk' and 'Little Folk' demographics of Bree and the town's tedious history; and, without further ado, get us to the Prancing Pony."

Being that it was well past nightfall and raining, the Bree-gates were shut. After much knocking, the old gatekeeper appeared with a lantern and peered suspiciously over the gate.

"'Ere now," the gatekeeper bemoaned in his quaint, English idiom:

___Who's that knocking__ on ____my door?_  
_Its ____gotta__ be a ____quarter to four__. _  
_Is it you again coming 'round for more? _

Frodo, remembering the proper etiquette for secret passwords and ancient door-opening rituals, replied:

_Can't you hear me knockin' on your window?  
Can't you hear me knockin' on your door?  
Can't you hear me knockin' down your dirty street, yeah! _

The gatekeeper slyly replied:

_I hear you knocking,  
But you can't come in.  
I hear you knocking,  
Go back where you been!_

Not to be deterred by a sudden change of lyric from Rod Stewart to Dave Edmunds (obviously meant to confuse the uninitiated stranger), Frodo remained constant with his Richards/Jagger composition:

_Can__'t you hear me knockin', ahh, are you safe asleep?  
Can't you hear me knockin', yeah, down the gaslight street?  
Can't you hear me knockin', yeah, throw me down the keys._

The gatekeeper, satisfied that he had performed his duty satisfactorily, mumbled, "Alright, alright then," as he swung the gate open. Still, he eyed the road-weary travellers with some amazement: "Four Hobbits, eh? and from the Shire by the sound of your outlandish accent."

"Yes, we are travelers from Buckland on our way to The Prancing Pony, if you must know," Frodo answered rather indignantly.

"The Prancing Pony, eh?" the gatekeeper said with a wink and a nod. "Lookin' for some action at the inn, is it? Tryin' to get somethin' ye can't get in the Shire, hmmm? Takin' a walk on the wild side, are ye? Big women bobbin' Hobbits? HAH! Hope you brought some rope or a step stool!"

"Our business is our own," Frodo huffed in irritation.

"Your business is your own, is it? Ho-ho, m'lads! Far be it from me to go a' pryin' into your Perian perversions," the gatekeeper winked knowingly. "'_What happens in Bree stays in Bree'_, as the travel brochures tell. Say no more, my friends, I get it…and I hope you 'get it' too."

"Look, I don't know what you're getting at, but we are merely seeking a room for the night," Frodo growled.

"All four of ye, and one room?" the gatekeeper laughed. "Well, that don't leave much space for the drunken wenches and the llamas. But it'll be quite cozy, no doubt!"

"Look, are you going to let us in?" Merry interrupted angrily.

"Yes, I am getting soaked," Pippin grumbled.

"Not quite the 'wet' you want to 'get', eh, my horny li'l hobbit?" The gatekeeper said as he nudged Pippin. "Say no more, say no more!" He reached into his robe and pulled out several small items. "Here you go, my likely lads, two complimentary Prancing Pony_ buy-one, get-one-free, all-you-can-eat_ buffet coupons, and some Elf-tickler condoms from _Madame Hardbottle's House of Red Light_." He motioned Pippin closer and whispered, "They're_ ribbed_ for her pleasure too!"

Finally, the disgusted Hobbits guided their ponies past the leering gatekeeper and slogged as quickly as possible through the muck and mire of Bree's main thoroughfare, aptly named 'The Strip'. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" the gatekeeper shouted after them. "Keep away from them Dwarvish prostitutes, as you can't tell male from female…lest you're into a bit of the strange. Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you!"

"How do we find The Prancing Pony?" Sam asked as he stumbled doggedly through the mud.

"I assume it's that pink stucco building with 'The Prancing Pony' in large, neon letters," Frodo said in dismay.

And there before them stood the 'Pony', a garish quasi-Tudor structure with the aforementioned fluorescent pink daub-and-wattle walls intersected with faux-wood polyurethane beams and neoclassic statues of cherubic ponies pissing into a weedy, green pond. A neon sign buzzed and blinked 'VACANCY' as the rain fell, and since there was a valet, a rather shabby-looking and bumbling Halfling named Nob, the Hobbits did not need to park their ponies.

Sam stood at the dimly lit doorway of the Inn locked in concentration as he read a sign. "It says: 'Happy Hour from four to six pm weekdays'," he reiterated slowly, "and 'Karaoke with D.J. Turin Turambar every Sat and Sun' – I guess that means the weekend."

"Karaoke or not, let's get in out of this rain," Frodo said with a shiver (but whether from the chill downpour, or the thought of drunken, off-key singing is up for conjecture). "Hopefully the grill is still open so we can get a bite to eat."

The inn's main room was near filled to the rafters with an incessant buzz of drunken blather, clanking tankards and clinking silverware. The crowd was a mixed-bag of local mannish farmers, hammered Hobbits, and a sprinkling of seedy characters that were obviously foreign to Bree: a group of swarthy Southron travelers newly arrived from up the Greenway, a few somber looking dwarves from out East, and one or two sinister ranger-types hiding their criminal scowls beneath hooded cowls in the shadowy recesses of the room. Fortunately for the Hobbits, two nearby drunks slumped completely out of their chairs and lay face-first in the sawdust, spit and spilled ale, leaving their table unoccupied. Being hungry and thirsty, the Hobbits decided to forego the niceties of politeness and civility, and climbed over the drunks to usurp their table. A portly, red-faced man in a white apron came hustling and bustling by with his over laden tray tipping tankards of ale precariously from side to side.

"Excuse me, can we…" Frodo called in the man's direction.

"'Arf a minnit, 'arf a minnit, if'n you please," the man bellowed over his shoulder and was soon lost in the crowd.

A few moments later, the red-faced man came back, but he steamed right past the Hobbit's table again. "Pardon me…" Pippin said as the waiter breezed by.

"'Old yorn 'orses, 'old yorn 'orses," the man huffed and disappeared again.

"The service here sucks," Sam grumbled in time with his rumbling tummy.

The man then suddenly reappeared, wiping his hands fastidiously on his dirty apron. "Evenin' kind soirs," the man said, brushing the sweat from his forehead with his stained shirtsleeve, "what'll you be wantin'?"

"Beds for four and dinner, if you please," Frodo said. "Are you Barliman Butterbur?"

"'At's roight, Butterbur's me name and innkeepin's me game – bein' that I'm mos'ly innerested _'in keepin'_ you 'ere spendin' yorn money as long as possible!" Barliman laughed. He then clapped his hands to his forehead, as if he were trying to remember something…something very important…something key to the entire plot… something a wizard had told him not to forget or he would flay him alive! "Four 'Obbits! He cried in perplexity, "and outta ther Shire, by yer queer talk – beggin yer li'l massers' pardon fer the inference. 'At reminds me 'o' sumptin' a' portant; unfortunately, I shan't be rememberin' it till it's far too late – in keepin' wi' ther storyline 'n' all."

"That's quite all right, Butterbur," Frodo shrugged. "This is Mr. Brandybuck, Mr. Took and Mr. Gamgee, and I am Mr. Incognito…I mean Mr. Anonymous…errr…Underhill…Mr. Underhill…just an unassuming travelling Hobbit with a Ring…I mean without a Ring…heh…no Ring but the ringing in my ears, which is what happens when I'm hungry…oh my poor ears!"

Butterbur stared dumbly at Frodo for a moment and said, "'Ere now, it's gone again. In one ear 'n' out ter other, as the sayin' goes. If I 'ad 'alf a mind, that'd be 'alf a mind more'n I got now!" he said in his homely, self-effacing manner. "Anyways, one thing drives out ter other, so to speak, but it's been just 'at busy tonight. Got damn for'ners crawlin' out'er th' walls, present company excepted. But we got some noice, cozy 'Obbit rooms fer you li'l massers, and I'll be 'avin' dinner whipped up fer ye quicker than you can say 'Pe'er Piker pilched a pack 'o' peckered pumpernickel'."

But before the Hobbits could decipher what Butterbur just said, he was bustling off again. "Karaoke starts in an hour," he said over his shoulder. "Make yerselves to 'ome. Sure'n there'll be some innerested ears to 'ear wot tales ye got fer th' tellin'."

"What an atrocious accent," Merry said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I'm sure it'll only be gettin' worser," Sam said prophetically.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve: A Spree in Bree, Part II – Along came a Strider…**

The Shire Hobbits found Butterbur's beer fabulous, so much so that Peregrin Took delightedly exclaimed, "It comes in gallons?" as he quaffed with great gusto a huge glass of the golden ale. But his excitement turned to embarrassment when Butterbur pointed out that Pippin had just guzzled down a whole pitcher of beer; thereafter, Pippin sipped sheepishly from a mug Barliman had handed him. Needless to say, the weary Hobbits found themselves quite inebriated in a very short time, and as their mood lightened, their tongues loosened as well. Several Bree Hobbits -- gossips and busybodies of the sort that are the foundation of any Hobbitish society -- peppered the Shirelings with all manner of questions regarding their relations and genealogy, their eating habits, and a curious fixation on their sexual orientations, forcing Frodo to declaim "I am not gay!" several times before the Breelanders judiciously changed the subject.

All the while, Frodo noticed a stranger by the fire staring at him while the Hobbits engaged in their interminable chatter. He was a weather-beaten man, with neither the neatly unkempt, Vogue model-stubble of Peter Jackson's dreamy rendition, nor the American Indian-with-a-kilt character from Ralph Bakshi, just a rather shabby and foul looking gent with an unnerving glare. Frodo leaned over to Butterbur and motioned, "Who is that tall-looking fellow over their in the corner? He's been looking at me all night."

Butterbur glanced over in the direction Frodo indicated, but quickly averted his eyes. "Him? He be one 'o' them there Rangers," he whispered fearfully, "a rovin' folk that ne'er made it into the movies -- which is too bad really, as they all seem to be needin' jobs."

"Why are they called Rangers?" Frodo asked.

Butterbur scratched his head and mumbled, "Near as I can tell, cos' _wayward wastrels_, _vagrants and vagabonds_, although noicely allit'rative, is jus' too much of a jawbreaker for simple folk. Anyways, 'ee's called Strider in these parts, although 'at aint 'is real name, I s'pose. 'Ee comes 'n' goes, says little of import, and tracks mud on me floors, which is pretty much the marketin' demographics 'o' this here establishment. In any case, 'ee adds a bit 'o' color to the main room -- sorta like the Norm character on 'Cheers', savin' less talkative -- which is a blessin', I can tell you."

Suddenly, to his chagrin, Frodo noticed that the drunken Pippin was talking in an animated fashion to the sour and swarthy-looking Southrons, who were all looking intently at Frodo. "Oh ye-a-a-ah, Fro-o-o-d-o-o… Frodo Underhill…thas' 'is name," Pippin said loudly with an exaggerated wink. "It seems the name 'Baggins' is 'baggage' if you get my drif'."

Flustered and desperate, Frodo hurriedly jumped upon the stage, nearly running into the stripper pole in his haste. He whispered something to the DJ, who reached into his bag of karaoke classics and began spinning a tune while Frodo threw out some gang signs and shouted, "Yo, yo, yo – wa'sup y'all?" to the crowd. He then began singing some scat swing, which he approximated to be proto-hip-hop, for as a jazz aficionado he could never reconcile himself to the idea that rap was considered by some to be a musical form:

_Hey diddle-diddle, there's a kitty on the fiddle,_  
_The cow done shot the moon --_  
_Just shakin' her udder like a hoochie mutha,_  
_She was cokie when she took up the spoon._

_Elsie starts swingin', her G-string flingin'  
And her bovine hooves in the air, _  
_Singin hey diddle diddle with her titty in the middle,  
And you swing like you just don't care!_

_And Elsie sang: Hey diddle-diddle, the cat's cookin' on the fiddle._  
_Come on Little Boy Blue, show us what you gonna do --_  
_Play a nursery rhyme in syncopated time,_  
_When only them blue notes will do!_

_Mary, Mary quite contrary, _  
_how does you garden grow?_  
_Well there aint no grass on a well-worn path,_  
_So goodness only knows._

_Drivin' your car to a downbeat bar _  
_To listen to them saxes moan._  
_The wolves get in line just 'bout closing time,_  
_To see who will take you home._

_And Mary sang: Hey diddle-diddle, the cat's cookin' on the fiddle._  
_Come on Little Boy Blue, show us what you gonna do --_  
_Play a nursery rhyme in syncopated time,_  
_When only them blue notes will do!_

Caught up in the moment (and with several beers under his belt) Frodo then went off on a prolonged bit of impromptu improvisation:

_Sing a song of Threepenny, Finnegan has died,_  
_Gatsby dreams of Zelda while Atlas shrugged and sighed._  
_Basie is the Count again, Rene Magritte broke his nose,_  
_Punched by the Duke of Ellington for painting on his robes._

_The King of Swing was Calloway; 'Fatha' Hines was Earl, _  
_Morton salts his Jellyroll while Ella snatched the Pearl._  
_Satchmo blew his Beiderbecke, and Dorsey drummed a Krupa,_  
_Gershwin took the A-train after boxing Joe Palooka…_

Unfortunately, the sheer amount of musical and literary allusions overcame Frodo, and his wild theatrical gesticulations sent him careening off the stage. He had been fingering the Ring on its gold chain as he fell, and somehow the Ring had slipped onto his finger. POOF! He vanished. A few Hobbits began clapping, thinking it was all part of the act, but the applause became tentative and stopped altogether as a nervous murmur thrummed through the crowd, becoming a dull roar as the drunks caught up with the more sober folk in voicing their disbelief.

*****WARNING: GRATUITOUS CGI SEQUENCE*****

The walls of The Prancing Pony blew away and Frodo found himself in the howling vortex of a whirlwind. It seemed that the virulent storm had sucked the color from the room, or what remained of the room. Frodo could barely make out the other patrons of The Pony from the corner of his eye, but they were thrown into vague, abstracted shadows, as if they were now negative photographic impressions of life slowly consumed by chaos. All that remained was the swirling distortions of the wind, and a daunting presence searching, ever searching, for Frodo. No, it is not searching for me, Frodo thought; it is looking for the Ring! And then he perceived, as if from a great distance, a horrific lidless eye wreathed in flame, its relentless glare piercing the shadows. And the howl of the wind coalesced into a low, rumbling voice:

"Olly, Olly oxen free!"

Frodo shifted uneasily and looked about for a place to hide, but he was alone and naked before the great eye.

"Marco…"

Frodo felt the strange urge to cry out "Polo!" but he placed his free hand over his ring finger in an effort to shield his prize. This immediately drew the sharp glance of the eye directly towards him, and the voice growled:

"Peek-a-boo…I see you!"

With a tremendous effort, Frodo tore the ring from his finger, and he found himself once again in the friendly confines of The Prancing Pony restored. He had somehow dragged himself under a table while the dismayed crowd buzzed and bitched above him. Thinking quickly, Frodo jumped up and shouted, "TA-DAH!" as if he had just performed a magic trick, but the crowd was having none if it. They all drew away from Frodo, snarling and fearful of the freaky Hobbit. Suddenly, Frodo felt a heavy hand fall upon his shoulder, and he was quickly whisked away from the public room. Literally dragged into a private antechamber, Frodo eventually shrugged off his assailant's powerful grip and gasped as he looked up to see the haggard face of a tall ranger, the one Butterbur had derisively called Strider.

"That was some trick you pulled…Mr. Underhill," Strider growled, "why didn't you just hire a circus troop with oliphaunts and clowns on stilts to announce your presence?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about!" Frodo cried, but Strider put a finger to his lips in an effort to silence him.

"Did you just shush me?" Frodo bellowed even louder. "How dare you shush me!"

"Be still, Mr. Underhill," Strider hissed, "or I'll cut your tongue out of your mouth and nail it to your forehead!"

Frodo's indignance faltered under Strider's withering glare. "What…what do you want of me?" the Hobbit whispered hesitantly, unsure of the ranger's intentions.

"Merely to offer you some advice, and my aid – if you'll have it," Strider replied.

"Your aid? Why should I want your aid?" Frodo frowned, looking the shabby ranger up and down dubiously. But before Strider could answer, the door to the room flew open and Samwise and Pippin burst in.

"Have at you, Longshanks!" Sam cried, remembering a bit of _Le Morte d'Arthur_ from the times Bilbo had read classics to him in his youth. "What the hell has my ass got to do with magic?" he quoted errantly from Cervantes, hoping his resemblance to Sancho Panza would make up for such an out-of-context allusion.

"Bravely put, Samwise" Strider chuckled, and added a Quixote quote of his own: "It's true I'm pretty clever, and I'm something of a rascal, but all that is well hidden under this always easy and natural disguise of behaving like a fool."

Samwise blushed, realizing Strider had trumped him with his literary knowledge, but he quickly regained his indignation and sputtered in outrage, "Just what d'yer think yer doin' draggin' off my master like that?"

"I'm not doing anything, presently," Strider answered with a smile, "but I have offered your master my services, if he'll have me."

Pippin, remembering the gatekeeper's warning about prostitutes, whispered to Frodo, "You can do better than _him_, Frodo. I mean, if you're going to pay for it, you might as well sleep with someone who at least has taken a bath. You can do a fair might better with someone less foul."

"You mean, 'I look foul but feel fair', is that it?" Strider asked.

"I don't even want to know how you feel," Pippin said with disgust.

Sam scratched his chin thoughtfully and said, "Well, if he looks foul and feels fair, aint that jus' as bad as looking fair 'n' feelin' foul? How 'bout Frodo just pickin' up a whore who looks fair _and_ feels fair, given the cost involved and all?"

"I am not gay!" Frodo grumbled for the umpteenth time.

Strider sighed. This was not going to be easy.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen: Is That a Nazgul Under the Blankets, **

**Or are You Just Happy to See Me?**

Having got beyond the inordinate amount of sexual innuendo found in Chapter Twelve, the naturally suspicious Hobbits were still unconvinced of Strider's true intentions.

"Look, it's not just because you look fair but seem foul…" Frodo said.

"I believe you mean look foul but seem fair," Pippin interrupted.

"Right, foul not fair…I mean fair not foul. Bah! In any event, why should we trust you with our lives?"

But before Strider could answer, Barliman Butterbur came barging in with some stunning news. "If'n ye'll pardon me, young massers," he said, eyeing Strider dubiously, "I jus' dismembered wot it was I weren't s'posed ter forgit. It were this letter I got from that there Gandalf feller."

"Gandalf?" Frodo said with some surprise.

"Aye, Gandalf," Butterbur shrugged, "long beard, pointy hat – stereotypical wizardly sort by th' look of 'im -- cheap bas'ard, never tipped the wait staff."

Frodo thanked Butterbur and made sure the barkeep was out of the room before he opened the envelope. He recognized Gandalf's spidery scrawl right off:

_Dear Frodo,_

_If you happen to be reading this note, it is obvious you have overcome your native Hobbit stupidity and survived the trip to Bree. Hurrah for our side! Be wary of any strangers in Bree, as the Enemy has spies all about the place, and do watch out for the Dwarvish whores, as one can't tell female from male – unless you're into that sort of thing (which wouldn't be surprising). Stick with B. Butterbur, as he can be trusted – even if he is a loutish dolt, who I am sure has forgotten to give you this letter in a timely manner. If that is the case, I shall give him a goiter the size of a buttock on the side of his neck and have him speak like Pee-Wee Herman for the rest of his natural life._

_In addition, the story requires that I introduce a new character, because we can't very well have another tedious tale overrun with just Halflings and Dwarves like in 'The Hobbit'. If your need is dire, put all your trust in a ranger that goes by the name of Strider. He doesn't sing at the drop of a hat (thank Eru for that!), and he shall guide you on the next leg of your journey. I will catch up with you later, if I can. And don't you dare question my motives: it's part of my character to be mysterious and missing in action for several chapters at a time. Blame Tolkien, not me!_

_Be careful,_  
_**G.**_

_P.S. -- Don't judge a book by its cover. Strider is not what he seems._

_P.P.S. --_  
_All that is withered is not old,  
Not all who ponder deeply think.  
Some haven't the sense to come in from the cold  
Because they've had too much to drink._

_From the squat gawking up at the world,  
Sorely mocked for his poor lack of height --  
Shall get all the cool stuff and the girl,  
In spite of his measure so slight._

Frodo set the missive down, and mumbled, "Well I'll be damned."

"Is there some kind 'o' trouble, Mister Frodo?" Sam asked with some concern.

"Oh, Gandalf's gone missing again," Frodo sighed.

"Damn useless wizards," Sam huffed.

"Well, at least Gandalf seems to trust you, Strider," Frodo said, still unsure of the ranger, "in spite of that foul-feeling-fair thingy."

"_All that is withered is not old, not all who ponder deeply think," _Strider murmured as if deep in thought.

"That poem in Gandalf's letter is about you, then?" Frodo exclaimed.

Strider, who had heard the letter read aloud within the narration, nodded. "Aye, it is part of a longer piece -- a prophesy foretold by Malbeth the Mumbler centuries ago:

_Aragorn the mannish ranger  
Never got his kinsmen's height,  
And if you ever saw him,  
You would even say he's slight.  
All of the haughty Noldor  
Used to laugh and call him names --  
They wouldn't let poor Aragorn  
Play in any elvish games._

_Then one foggy Imladris eve,_  
_Elrond came to say:  
'Once we destroy the Dark Lord's Ring,  
Aragorn will be crowned the king.'  
Then all the Elves, they loved him,  
And apologized for their sport,  
But Aragorn the mannish ranger  
Is and always will be short._

Sam, looking rather perplexed (which was either an indication that he was thinking, or that he had gas), eyed Strider warily. "Hey now, wait just a moment!" he cried. "You aint tall at all – them is a pair 'o' platform boots you're wearing!"

"Yes, I've tried lifts, but they never offered enough height," Strider said with a sigh, "and I've tried pumps, but just try and muck about in the woods through all the bracken and underbrush in stiletto heels. It's murder on the ankles!"

"What's the difference if you're tall or short?" Pippin said from a Hobbitish standpoint. "Height isn't the measure of a man -- length maybe, but not height."

"You don't understand," Aragorn groaned, "my great forefather from the Second Age, Elendil, was seven-feet, eleven inches tall, and his son, Isildur was seven-feet tall. I'm only five-seven and a half in my stocking feet."

"Why do they call you Strider, then?" Sam asked.

"Well, I can't very well go about being nicknamed 'Shorty' or 'Stubby', can I?" Aragorn grumbled. "What kind of scion of kings and heir to the thrones of Gondor and Arnor would I be if I were called 'Aragorn the Dinky Dunedain'?"

Frodo shot a glance over to Sam, who rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Well, five-eight or so is plenty tall to us Hobbits," Frodo said sympathetically, "as we never get much larger than four-feet tall."

"Bullroarer Took was four-foot-five," Pippin countered smugly with obvious familial pride.

"He was a freak," Frodo sneered, and then quickly changed the subject: "But look here, Strider, we were wondering if you could tell us about those Black Riders that have been chasing us."

Strider frowned. "They are the Nazgul – Ringwraiths – servants bound to Sauron by the power of the ring. Vampire-wannabes they are, all dark and Goth, but without the angst and emo of the current slew of romantic teenage neck-biters."

"That's just frickin' great!" Frodo muttered. "What'll we do now?"

"There's no use trying to escape Bree tonight," Strider replied wisely. "the Nazgul are at their strongest in dark and lonely places. We'll just have to say the night here at The Prancing Pony and set out in the morning."

Suddenly, the Hobbit-valet Nob burst in half-carrying a dazed and seemingly drunken Merry. "I found yer friend a'lyin' out in front 'o' ther inn," Nob wheezed, out of breath from dragging Merry. "'Ee's 'ad a bad fall, it seems, but I guess 'ee aint no worse for the wear."

"Merry!" Frodo growled crossly. "Have you been out drinking and carousing over at Madame Hardbottle's?"

"No…no…I just took a walk was all," Merry stammered, "and I saw a black man."

"You needn't be afraid of every black man you see," Pippin scolded in a politically correct maner, "they aren't all criminals, you know. They are just like you and me, save taller and more adept at sports."

"No…no!" Merry spat and hacked convulsively, "this wasn't any ordinary black man – he had black robes and he hissed."

"The Nazgul – they are here in Bree!" Strider cried in dismay.

"Well, there goes the neighborhood!" Sam grunted.

"We better get to our room and lock ourselves in. I will give my life to protect you, Frodo," Strider said bravely.

"Do you have any weapons?" Frodo, now very afraid, squeaked.

"Yes, I have…_this_!" Strider cried, and dramatically pulled a sword from its sheathe and raised it on high.

"Ummm…Strider…" Sam said hesitantly, "that sword is broken in half."

"Yes, it is Narsil, the great sword of Elendil, the blade that was broken. I have the shards somewhere in my purse."

"If it's so great, how come it broke?" Sam blurted, stating the obvious.

"But…Strider…" Frodo interrupted uneasily, "don't you have, perhaps, a halberd or a broadsword or a claymore that is…errr…a bit sharper and pointy?"

"Fear not!" Strider exclaimed obliviously. "Narsil shall protect you!"

"Bleedin' great!" Sam whispered to Frodo. "We got this weather-beaten, half-pint ranger who thinks he's heir to some throne that's been empty for nigh on three-thousand years, waving about a broken scimitar."

"Just humor him, Sam," Frodo whispered back. "He's got a weird gleam in his eyes. Broken sword or no, I don't want him going all postal on us."

~~oOp~oOo~oOo~oOo~~

It was now the dead of night, and the Hobbit suite Butterbur had prepared for Frodo and his companions was bathed in darkness, with only the faintest glimmer of light from a crescent moon winking and wavering from behind the glowering clouds. The rain had let up, and now a cold, dank mist crept along the ground, suffocating the earth in a shroud of spectral white. Through an unlocked window, the groping mist insinuated its way into the lightless room, crawling and grasping and feverishly writhing towards the occupied beds. Then, the mist rose like a ghostly hand and a finger of skeletal hue beckoned to the stationary shadows on the walls. As if on command, the sinister shades slid sinuously down the walls and coalesced into human shapes in the middle of the room. They were as black as shadows within shadows and silent as a tomb. From their scabbards rose fierce blades that glinted like fangs in the spectral moonlight. Each of the ghastly forms chose a bed and stabbed their blades downward again and again and again into the motionless sleepers with terrifying force.

Sam awoke with a start. He had had the most horrible dream. He had dreamt the Nazgul were standing above him and had stabbed him repeatedly.

"Go back to bed, Samwise," Strider whispered reassuringly from a chair in the corner. "You will need all the sleep you can muster, for tomorrow we shall have a long march."

Then Strider looked out the window at the other wing of The Painted Pony. He could make out vague shapes inside the room meant for the Hobbits, but which they had wisely decided to vacate at the last moment. Suddenly a series of bloodcurdling shrieks filled the air. In the other room, the dismayed Nazgul pulled off the tattered and torn bed sheets from each bed only to discover life-size, blow-up erotic dolls purchased from Madame Hardbottle's Sex Emporium, slowly whizzing, whining and fizzing their way to limpness. Intrigued, the WitchKing ran a black finger along the deflated piece of plastic's lifelike lips and still plump breasts.

As if recollecting some distant memory from the shrouded past, he hissed, "Chrissy Coed Cheerleader Doll…"

Noticing the other Nazgul eyeing him curiously, he growled in angered embarrassment and all the Ringwraiths fled out the window. The WitchKing gave one last, wistful look over his shoulder and then he, too, was gone.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen: Frodo's Fateful Flight**

**-Or- How to Raise Phantasmagoria for Fun and Profit **

Frodo awoke with a start. It was still quite dark out, and the predawn mist clung wetly to the weary world. Frodo's companions slept with oblivious aplomb, soundly snoring and sniffling and, in Sam's case, munching (he ate, even in his sleep). Aragorn, too, had finally nodded off, sure now that the Nazgul had done their worst for the night. Suddenly, Frodo could hear a strange scratching or pawing coming from outside the inn, as if claws were scraping the cobblestone at regular intervals. Drawn ineluctably to the window, the groggy Frodo peered out the lumpy, distorted panes of glass (quite a luxury for a country establishment at this juncture of the 3rd Age, I can tell you – waxed paper and wood shutters were good enough for most!), fully expecting to see the grim Ringwraiths mounted on their hellish horses, compelling him to come forth by the force of some evil, mesmeric spell.

But lo and behold! It was Gandalf astride a majestic great eagle of the sort Bilbo had described from his journeys. It could well have been Gwaihir the Windlord himself, raking the stone with his razor-sharp talons! Gandalf motioned the surprised Frodo to remain silent, and then with a curt wave of his hand demanded that he, in no uncertain terms, come down this very instant, and do be quiet, damned silly Hobbit! (Gandalf had a way of saying volumes with the slightest gesture). Frodo quickly donned his travelling clothes and silently crept from the room. In a moment, he found himself out in the courtyard gazing up at the wizard atop the immense bird.

Looking mighty put out, Gandalf grumbled, "Well don't just stand there dawdling with your mouth agape like some nebulous ninny -- climb aboard. We have much work to do and very little time to do it!"

"Do what?" Frodo yawned as he absently scratched his bum.

"Why, destroy the Ring, of course!" Gandalf stated as if it were obvious.

"Do what?" Frodo replied, more awake now but still not quite catching on.

"Frodo, please, do try to follow the story line," Gandalf huffed. "We are flying to Mount Doom to destroy the Ring!"

"Do _what_?" Frodo heard words coming out of the wizard's mouth, but they seemed to be gibberish.

"Oh, now you're merely being obstinate! Even Hobbits can't be that thick," Gandalf sighed as he leaned closer to the Hobbit. "Frodo, we are going to cut the story blessedly short and get rid of the Ring once and for all. No poncey, singing Elves, no hermaphroditic Dwarves and no tediously tyrannical ophthalmic images to deal with. We shall skip right over 'The Two Towers' and 'Return of the King' and drop the Ring into Mount Doom. Done! And then I can at last get on with my immortal life far away from this wretched Middle-earth."

"But…the Screen Actor's Guild…"

"NO! I don't want to hear anything about unions!" Gandalf growled peremptorily. "I had quite enough of the 'Dwarves With Limited Speaking Roles' in 'The Hobbit' parody, thank you very much, and I won't let any such anachronistic association get in the way of ending this ridiculous lampoon as soon as possible!"

"But…but this makes no sense," Frodo sputtered.

Gandalf frowned. "Sense? It makes perfect sense! Far more than walking halfway across Middle-earth, through the depths of Moria, down the River Anduin and then into the very backyard of Sauron. That's six-hundred miles at least! Please, be so kind and explain to me how that makes more sense than just chartering a ride on _Eagle Air_, leaving the Nazgul in our dust, bypassing a Balrog and then arriving on the very doorstep of Mount Doom before the cyclopean Sauron can bat his single great Eye?"

"Well, once you put it that way…" Frodo mumbled rather unconvincingly.

"Let me put it in a way even an inane Hobbit can understand," Gandalf said in a wholly derisive tone, "you won't be stabbed by the WitchKing, speared by an Orc chieftain, poisoned by a giant spider and have your ring finger bitten off by a half-crazed, retrograde Stoor."

"Right, help me up then!" Frodo replied.

"Ummm…you'll have to sit in coach," Gandalf said apologetically as he lifted the Hobbit aboard, "there is only one first-class seat…and I am a wizard, after all. Would you care for a complimentary bag of salted nuts?"

Perched atop the great eagle, the journey seemed effortless, and was revelatory for a Hobbit – even a semi-adventurous one like Frodo. Vast swathes of land surrendered in their speeding wake, a rich and varied panoply of tumbling tumuli, verdant meadow, winding rivers and snowcapped peaks. Aside from stopping for an occasional potty break, the flight was non-stop, and they reached Mordor by evening. Below them lay the Black Lands, scarred and pitted and fuming; and before them was Orodruin, that men call Mount Doom, jutting like an accusing finger towards the heavens, wreathed in smokes and belching in ashen fury.

"Only another minute now, Frodo, and all you have to do is toss the Ring into the Crack of Doom. We'll be back in the Shire by tea-time tomorrow!" Gandalf shouted above the howling wind.

Frodo stared with glazed eyes at the Ring on its golden chain. It was so simple and elegant. What a shame it would be to callously toss the Ring – this beautiful thing -- into molten magma, and it would be lost forever. It was not only a shame it would be utterly stupid -- immoral, even! Well, Frodo was one principled Hobbit who would not be subverted by Gandalf's obvious Maiaric decadence. Why, he even looked like some radical old hippy! "No!" Frodo said defiantly, unconcerned with the wizard's opinion in the matter. "Now that it comes to it, I do not wish to be rid of the Ring. It's mine! It came to me, didn't it? It was a gift from Bilbo. It is precious to me!"

Gandalf looked over his shoulder and frowned in disappointment. "I suppose I should make the effort to convince you otherwise," the wizard sighed sadly, "and thus have you redeem yourself through self-sacrifice. You know, give the story a moral ending as the author intended. But then again, what's one more Hobbit, more or less?" So saying, he grabbed Frodo by the scruff of the neck and threw him off the Eagle. As Frodo spun in helpless free-fall, he heard Gandalf shouting, "Happy landings, my dear Frodo!"

He heard his name echoing as he fell: "Frodo…Frodo…Frodo." He felt the searing heat as the gaping maw of the Crack of Doom yawned before him -- "Frodo…Frodo…Frodo." He stretched out his hands in a vain effort to stop the fiery fate that was rushing ever closer – "Frodo…Frodo…Frodo." He closed his eyes as he awaited the inevitable impact -- "Frodo…Frodo…Frodo…"

"Frodo…Frodo…Mister Frodo," Sam said gently as he tried to rouse his master. "Mister Frodo, it's near dawn, and Strider here says we must be on our way as quick as two fleas mating, if you'll pardon the expression."

Frodo's eyes fluttered open and he grinned a bit. He was never so glad to see Sam's homely face in all his life. "Then…it was all a dream…a terrible dream," Frodo murmured in that annoyingly whiny, melancholy way that only Frodo could.

"Well, I s'pose it was," Samwise said with a shrug. "It's been a helluva night, and no doubt! That'd sure be the cause 'o' them night sweats." Then Sam became grave as he looked away from Frodo's face. "Errr…Mister Frodo, what's happened to your hands? They look…burnt!"

Frodo's relieved smile faded away as he lifted up his palms. They were terribly scorched and blistered, and in some spots seared right down to the bone. Frodo screamed in abject horror and fainted dead away.

"Frodo…Frodo…Mister Frodo," Sam said gently as he tried to rouse his master. "Mister Frodo, it's near dawn, and Strider here says we must be on our way as quick as an old drunk straddlin' two whores, if you'll pardon the expression."

Frodo's eyes fluttered open and he grinned a bit. He was never so glad to see Sam's homely face in all his life. "Then…it was all a dream…a terrible dream," Frodo murmured in that annoyingly whiny, melancholy way that only Frodo could.

"Enough with the dream sequences already!" Strider barked. "We've got to get the hell out of Bree as quick as two fleas mating!"

Frodo felt a twinge of déjà vu, but decided for the sake of the plot to remain silent.

**~~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~~**

War Correspondent Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque here before the den of a pack of Wargs, those fearsome wolfish creatures seemingly gifted with their own speech and a malign will wholly uncharacteristic of the canine species. With the overwhelming popularity of the _Lord of the Rings_ film trilogy and the proposed filming of _The Hobbit _now in the scripting stage (or, as Hollywood insiders would say, _previs_)_,_ rumors are rife that there is serious discontent among the misunderstood and vilified Wargs. With the promise that I would not be ripped to shreds and my bloody carcass gnawed on as a snack, I am here to interview one the Wargs' spokespersons…or spokeswolves, as the case may be:

**B.U.R. Picaresque:** Mr. Warg, it has come to our attention that the wolfish population of Middle-earth has been set on its collective furry ear by the dramatization of Wargs in the film _The Two Towers_; which is to say, you feel Peter Jackson characterized you rather badly. That is, not 'badly' in an evil sense, which you certainly are, *_The Warg nods approvingly_* but rather ineptly.

**Warg:** Yes, my dear chap. Having reviewed the suspect footage, I must say I found it to be wanting in every respect. I mean, really, the only time I have seen such a sunken gut on one of my kin was when poor Uncle Lupine contracted worms. Nasty parasites, those.

**BURP:** Yes, I suppose so. Then you feel misrepresented?

**W:** Certainly! As if to be continually associated with those foul Orcs wasn't bad enough, we are now portrayed as if we've been crossbred with snub-nosed, gangrel hyenas! It's all too much, really.

**BURP:** How so?

**W:** Hmmm...Aside from the horridly distorted image of Wargs presented by Peter Jackson in his flawed film, another mischaracterization from a plot standpoint deals with Warg-kind used as saddled were-ponies, which of course is patently ludicrous! This is primarily due to Mr. Jackson's incessant pillaging of a non-canonical source: _The Hobbit_.

**BURP:** Then your characterization in _The Hobbit _was incorrect as well?

**W:** Good Lord, man, _The Hobbit _was originally published as a children's story; whatever resemblance it had with Middle-earth cosmology as a whole was at first merely coincidental. This sordid juxtaposition was accomplished later via manic editing by the author in order to marry the plot of _The Hobbit _– however awkwardly -- with the far more serious themes of _Lord of the Rings_. Nevertheless, the plot is chock-full of fanciful fairy tale elements. It is _Brothers Grimm _meets the _Völuspá_! Talking trolls with Cockney accents? It's absurd! Have you ever spoken to a troll? They are as dumb as doorknobs! One can't expect more than a few grunts and a good deal of flatulence from those lumbering oafs.

**BURP:** And this previous rewrite by the author of _The Hobbit_ and the upcoming films produced by Peter Jackson concern your species in what manner?

**W:** Let's look at this logically, shall we? No self-respecting warg of some three to four-hundred pounds has the ability or inclination to carry about some pusillanimous Orc enmeshed in 50 or so pounds of chain mail. Their scent alone is enough to make one gag! We are not pack animals like those pompous _Meara_ (although I must say they are quite delicious in a bordelaise sauce with a nice glass of port to wash them down). I think it is a bit much to expect one of the proud lineage of _canis lupus megaterribilis_ to accept the stirrup and bridle. It is far too over the top, even for a ham-handed director of Jackson's ilk, don't you think?

**BURP:** Most definitely. Are there any formal protests planned?

**W:** No. The pack felt that picketing would be, if you will excuse the pun, merely 'crying wolf'. As nocturnal predators, we feel that more direct action is called for. We shall be stalking Peter Jackson's home in Wellington, New Zealand. If the bloated blighter should even pop his head out the front door, he shall make a tasty treat for us. After all, there is enough of him to feed the whole pack!

**BURP:** Hmmm...But don't you think large wolfish creatures slinking about in a modern city, even at night, would be cause for alarm?

*_The Warg rolls his eyes_*

**W:** Silly, we shall be in disguise, of course.

**BURP:** Ah, sort of _'wolves in sheep's clothing'_, as it were?

**W:** Quite.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen: The Ballad of Brutal Bill Ferny, a****s well as a rather dull exit by Frodo and Company from Bree, **

**acting as a short respite before the big scene on Weathertop which will commence in the next chapter, **

**but which can't possibly appear presently due to time considerations and the apparent laziness of the Author, **

**who is currently reclining in his favorite chair, eating snack chips and watching a football game on the telly. **

**So, without further ado, the short respite that will eventually segue into a better, more imaginative **

**and rousing chapter ****sometime in the near future. Just not today. Maybe tomorrow. **

**Or the day after. Yes, Tuesday for certain, if not sooner. Just don't count on it.**

_Bill Ferny was a brute of a man --  
Yes he was!  
Bill Ferny was a brute of a man --  
Yes he was!  
His character was minor,  
And his grammar weren't much finer,  
Yes, Bill Ferny was a brute of a man!_

O, he was a man who lived in Bree,  
Just like the whole damned Ferny family.  
Bree-Men had names from Botany  
Like Goatleaf, Butterbur and Photosyntheses.  
Photosyntheses?  
Plural, if you please.

Don't ask Bill for a piece of his mind,  
Or engage in pleasantries to pass the time,  
Just be prepared to suffer a crime --  
That greedy bugger would steal you blind!  
Steal you blind?  
Watch your behind!

_Bill Ferny was a brute of a man --  
Yes he was!  
Bill Ferny was a brute of a man --  
Yes he was!  
He used the mild expletive 'garn',  
Which was synonymous with 'darn',  
Yes, Bill Ferny was a brute of a man!_

O, he had a house on the edge of town,  
Crackerjack built and quite rundown.  
With an overgrown hedge that ran around,  
To hide his lawn unmowed and brown.  
Unmowed and brown?  
A toxic dumping ground!

And in his house with the broken panes  
That never kept out the wind and rain,  
Performed naughty acts better left unnamed,  
With sheep and chickens and ibex from Spain.  
Ibex from Spain?  
It rhymes with rain.

_Bill Ferny was a brute of a man --  
Yes he was!  
Bill Ferny was a brute of a man --  
Yes he was!  
He was a secret spy for Sharky,  
whose retorts were always snarky,  
Yes, Bill Ferny was a brute of a man._

O, Ferny sold Sam a broken nag  
For twelve silver pennies in a burlap bag.  
And in delight, he hid his swag,  
Did brutal Bill Ferny that dirty old fag.  
Dirty old fag?  
Did I stutter, did I lag?

And when at last they rode from Bree,  
Frodo and Strider and the whole company,  
Ferny sneered but was forced to flee,  
When Sam, apple tossing, hit his nose with glee.  
That line sucked!  
Who gives a…

Ahem...

_Bill Ferny was a brute of a man --  
Yes he was!  
Bill Ferny was a brute of a man --  
Yes he was!  
There aint much more to say,  
But we'll say it anyway,  
Yes, Bill Ferny was a brute of a man.  
No, there aint much more to say,  
But we'll say it anyway,  
Yes, Bill Ferny was a brute of a man...._

"Cha-cha-cha!" Sam shouted with gusto, but the others glared at him disapprovingly. Sam's face turned beet-red and he glumly patted his pony Bill, but he soon started mindlessly humming the tune again as the company made their way eastward down the road from Bree.

As mentioned in the rather snappy ballad, Sam had purchased Bill the pony from the disreputable Ferny after their own horses had gone mysteriously missing from the stables the night previous. That the horse-thievery was connected to the attack of the Nazgul at the inn, they had no doubt, but Sam couldn't quite figure out why the Nazgul, with their great, fearsome black steeds, would need ponies. "Prob'ly carnival rides for the li'l wraiths back 'ome," he finally shrugged.

'So, the author intends on skipping over my big scene and going straight to Weathertop, is that it?" Pippin, having noticed the inordinately long chapter heading, grumbled disappointedly.

"Which scene is that?" Frodo asked.

"The bit in the Midgewater Marshes where the neekerbreekeers are chirruping loudly and the nasty midges are biting fiercely, and I say, 'what do they eat when they can't get Hobbit?'"

"Actually, you're mistaken, Pippin," Sam sniffed rather pompously. " 'At scene is mine in the book. They gave that bit 'o' dialogue o'er to you in the film, seein' as you were the comic relief in the movie 'n' all. You're pretty much a non-entity for most 'o' the first book."

"Oh, then…never mind," Pippin replied with a mix of relief and dismay.

It took Sam a few moments, but after a good deal of thought, he finally came to a stunning conclusion. "Lookie 'ere now," he said slowly, "so…the author…he intends eliminatin' my big scene in th' Midgewater Marshes an' endin' up at Weathertop?"

"Just skip it, Sam," Frodo sighed, thankful for football on the telly.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen: The Glories of Time Compression **

**in Bridging Several Pages of Rambling Exposition...**

**Oh yes, and that whole Nazgul thingy on Weathertop **

After six days of endless marching off-road on circuitous paths known only to the woodcrafty Strider (including the now infamously omitted Midgewater sequence), the company found themselves among the lower-lying hills that led up to Weathertop. Two nights night previous, they had seen lights flashing from atop the great, bald tor, and considered it to be some sort of Grail-shaped beacon; that is, until they recollected that this parody was based on Tolkien and not Malory.

"I wonder…" Sam murmured to no one in particular.

"Wonder what?" Pippin snapped, still irked that Sam had referred to his character as a non-entity.

"Wonder about the weather on Weathertop," Sam mumbled.

"What about the weather?" Merry joined in, trying desperately to ensure that he, too, would not be categorized as a non-entity. After all, there were not enough Hobbitish witticisms to go around.

"I wonder whether the weather on Weathertop differs from the weather hither down this dingely dell," Sam alliterated.

"Well, the heather is withered on thither wuthering hill," Pippin parried pertly. "Whether due to the will of the weather wearing thereupon or the wicked whims of the wastrel wind rustling the writhing ivy, we haven't the wherewithal with which to weigh in."

"Someone just stab me!" Frodo opined prophetically.

Wisely ignoring the discussion altogether, Strider said, "We might get to Weathertop by noon if we talk less and walk more."

"What exactly is Weathertop, Strider?" Frodo asked, noting that Strider had attached some significance to the ghastly place.

"It was once called Amon Sûl_,"_ Strider said wistfully, causing Frodo to shift uneasily as he walked. Too late, the chagrined Hobbit realized that his inquisitiveness had opened up a can of worms, and he would now have to listen to an interminable dialogue regarding some dreary historical point.

"_It was once called Amon Sûl,"_ Strider repeated emphatically, irritated that Frodo's internal monologue had interrupted his dreary historical point, "and the Men of the West defended it against the WitchKing of Angmar – the same dark fellow who has it in for you, Frodo," Strider said with a wink as Frodo squirmed. "There was once a great watchtower here, but it is now burned and broken, a tumbled ring that reflects little of its former fairness. It is said that Elendil stood up there waiting for the coming of Gil-galad in the days of the Last Alliance."

"Who was Gil-galad?" Merry asked, ignoring Frodo's scowl.

Self-absorbed as was usual for such an important Middle-earth personage, Aragorn did not deign to answer, lost as he was in pondering the lingering doubts of his lineage and attendant height issues, but someone else piped in:

___Gil-galad was an Elven-king_  
___With crown of gold and lots of bling,_  
___And celebrity status like Bono or Cher._  
___His was a name spoken everywhere._

___The last of his line, though the question remains,_  
___Was he Fingon's son or one of Fëanor's strain?_  
___A debate leaving scholars often befuddled,_  
___Due to Tolkien's scribbling, so hopelessly muddled._

___But long ago, he passed far from home,_  
___Unlike Elvis the King on porcelain throne;_  
___For in war didst fall his Hollywood Star,_  
___In Mordor where the shadows be._

In amazement, the others turned to look at Sam, for it was he who spoke.

"That's the worst poem I've ever heard," Pippin laughed. "It doesn't even end in a rhyme!"

"Sod off, Took!" Sam spat. "I didn't write it. I learned it from Bilbo when I were a li'l nipper. It aint my fault I can't recite it right proper."

"Bravely done, Mr. Gamgee," Strider said with a smile. "A bit off on the particulars, perhaps, but I think you caught the gist of Gil-galad's importance." Strider turned to look up at Weathertop and added, "But let us now make for Amon Sûl like Gil-galad did of old."

Sam, still offended by Pippin's critique, grumbled, "Amon Sûl, Weathertop; Strider, Aragorn; Pippin, Peregrin; Nindalf, Wetwang; Gandalf, Mithrandir, ex cet'ra 'n' so on -- why's everything got to have two names in this story?"

But by now, the company had stepped right over the canonical one-liner and started the steep ascent of Weathertop. At the top they found a great circle of rubble, vandalized statues and a few crumbling stone walls – quite a lot like Detroit, save there were no abandoned cars or billboards advertising malt liquor.

"Well, we are here, and Gandalf is not!" Merry sighed. "But who can blame him? This place gives me the creeps."

"I wonder," said Strider thoughtfully. He looked over at Frodo, who obviously wasn't paying attention, and then said a bit louder, "AHEM…I WONDER."

Frodo finally picked up his missed cue and replied: "Oh…look…that stone over there…on top of that huge pile of similar stones…it looks out of place."

Strider picked up the stone and examined it carefully. "Hmmm…this has been handled recently…perhaps three days ago...it's still warm. What do you make of these markings, Frodo?"

On the flat underside of the rock Frodo perceived what seemed to be:_ **I" III**._ Sam, who couldn't help butting in, said, "P'raps the rocks is each numbered, so'se the pile can be constructed a bit easier."

Frodo rolled his eyes. "Sam, you don't 'construct' a pile of rocks."

Not to be outdone, Sam replied, "Well, p'raps it used to be one 'o' them there pyramids, 'cept it got all decrepit o'er the ages."

Strider quickly interrupted to stave off any further inanity, "No, I believe that is a_ **G**-rune_ as well as Roman…I mean, Numenorean numerals. It could signify **G3**, which may mean Gandalf was here on October Third, or…"

"Or what?" Frodo said.

"All the rocks could be numbered in order to construct the pile more easily," Strider shrugged, "the Dunedain were very anal back then." He studied the stone more carefully and said, "But if Gandalf were here a few nights ago, that could explain the lights we saw from far off."

"What, do you mean the Grail-shaped beacon?" Sam asked.

Strider heaved a heavy sigh and gazed imploringly towards the heavens. "Well, it's getting late," he muttered finally, "I must now leave on an unspecified scouting mission in the middle of the night and leave you unsuspecting Hobbits completely defenseless."

"Oh, right." Frodo said with a smile. "And we Hobbits shall light a nice, big fire up here at the very apex of Weathertop which can easily be seen from the great expanse of plain that stretches out below us, assuring that anyone within a hundred miles will know we are here."

"Sounds like a plan!" Strider nodded and soon disappeared below the lip of the outcropping.

Coincidentally, almost immediately after Strider left and the Hobbits started their fire, shadowy forms appeared along the edge of the dell. The shapes rose like great plumes of dark smoke, then solidified into tall black figures that crept ever closer to the Hobbit's camp. The Hobbits heard venomous hissing and the dell became deathly cold.

"This can't be good," Merry whispered.

"Duh! Do you think?" Frodo grumbled.

"Well, look 'at the bright side," Sam said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, "there's four 'o' us, and only five 'o' them." Sam's inability to add sums in his head became apparent when he added, "We got 'em outnumbered, Mister Frodo!"

Poor Frodo felt an uncontrollable urge to put on the Ring, which he fought off vainly. Eventually the desire grew so strong that he pulled the chain from around his neck and slipped the ring onto his finger. Instantly, the air about the dell became distorted as it had during the 'Hey Diddle Diddle' sequence in the Prancing Pony. And the horrific black shapes became frighteningly clear: kings of old they appeared to be, mantled in grey with silvery-white helms and in their deathly grips they brandished fell blades of bitingly cold glittering steel. Their dead eyes, red-rimmed and bottomless, pierced him to his soul. Defiantly he drew his own sword, and it seemed to him that flames flickered around its edges.

One of the ghostly apparitions rushed forward, unconcerned with Frodo's feeble threat. He was the tallest of the wraiths and upon his helm was a spiked crown. In one hand he held a cruel sword and in the other a dagger that glowed with spectral light. He glared at Frodo momentarily with a hate that seemed to smote Frodo to the ground. But Frodo struck out with his sword at the last moment and cried out: _"In-A-Gadda**-**Da**-**Vida!"_

There was a piercing shriek like a little girl falling off of a bicycle, and Frodo felt a deathly cold pain shoot through his shoulder, as if he were stabbed with a frigid icicle. Before he finally fell into unconsciousness, he saw Strider leap past him waving a flaming brand. With a final effort, Frodo managed to slip the Ring from his finger and gasped, "I see nothing funny about this whatsoever."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen: My Shoulder's getting Colder and the Nazgul have gotten Bolder, but I'm not getting any Older – O, It's a Ringwraith's Life for Me!**

When Frodo came to, he found the other three Hobbits shooting dice.

"A'ight then, Master Merry, you may have won the dear departed's cloak and sword, but this one's for the Ring," Sam said as he rubbed the dice briskly between his two palms. "Come on seven, come eleven!"

"Roll them bones, Sammy!" Pippin cried.

"What on earth are you doing?" Frodo groaned groggily and tried to lift himself from the ground.

"Oh…Mister…Frodo," Sam stuttered as he awkwardly shoved the dice in his pocket, "you're alive then."

"Of course I am alive," Frodo winced as he held his tender shoulder. "What is it you were doing just now, Sam?"

"Well…seeing as you was practically dead," Sam blushed, incapable of lying, "_WE"_ --and here he made sure to point out both Merry and Pippin -- "was just seein' who would get yer stuff."

"Ummm…to bring back to the Shire and make a shrine in your memory," Merry said, thinking quickly.

"Aye, I've already designed the_ Fountain of the_ _Fallen Frodo _and _Mathomal Garden_," Pippin added, winking at Merry.

Strider intervened at this point and looked with some concern at Frodo's wound. "Merry, go boil some water," the ranger said gravely.

"Whatever for? We've just had our elevensies and it's not yet tea-time," Merry said with some confusion.

"Look, just go boil some water," Aragorn growled in irritation. "In every story ever written they boil water for medical emergencies. By Elbereth's left breast, I shall not break with tradition now!"

When Merry had brought back his little kettle of boiling water, Strider pulled out some dried herbs from a pouch, quietly hummed Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah', then crushed the herb in his hand and dropped it in the water. Immediately the dell filled with a wondrously aromatic fragrance. Thinking back upon it, Sam could never quite recollect the exact aroma of the herb; rather, it was a combination of hot chocolate on a winter's eve, a sprig of cinnamon spiking cider and gasoline (for some reason, Sam loved the smell of diesel). Strider then began bathing Frodo's wound in the mixture, and it was plain to everyone that much of the Hobbit's discomfort was relieved.

"What is that stuff, Strider?" Sam asked.

"It is a medicinal plant called 'Athelas' -- what Hobbits refer to as 'kingsfoil', a mere weed to you flippant folk."

"Seems like pretty potent stuff," Pippin said, marveling at its effect on Frodo.

"Oh yes, it is an ancient and beneficent medicine of the Dunedain," Strider said with a satisfied smile. "But not everyone should use Athelas™," he added with more seriousness, "like people with liver disease or those that have been prescribed MAO inhibitors. Pregnant women or those who are thinking of becoming pregnant should not use Athelas™. Also, severe allergic reactions have been associated with Athelas™ (rash; hives; itching; difficulty breathing; tightness in the chest; swelling of the mouth, face, lips, or tongue); bleeding in the eye; change in vision; change in the amount of urine; chest pain; dark or bloody urine; black, tarry stools, unusual or severe bleeding (e.g., excessive bleeding from cuts, increased menstrual bleeding, unexplained vaginal bleeding, unusual bleeding from the gums when brushing); loss of appetite; pale skin; seizures; severe, persistent headache; sore throat or fever; speech problems; unusual bruising; weakness; unexplained weight loss; yellowing of the skin or eyes. If you have an erection lasting more than four hours, discontinue using Athelas™ and immediately contact your local healer, midwife or barber."

"Damn, it seems the cure is more dangerous than the affliction," Merry said with a shudder.

"I think Rosie Cotton would be quite pleased with a four hour erection," Sam sighed wistfully.

When Frodo's wounds had been thoroughly cleaned and the Hobbit had again drifted off to fitful sleep, Strider took Sam aside and said, "I know it may be hard for you to understand this, Sam, so I'll use small words and talk very slowly. Frodo has been stabbed with a Morgul Blade, and I cannot heal his wound. He is in danger of becoming a wraith if the black Morgul magic reaches his heart. We must get him to Rivendell as quickly as possible. Perhaps Elrond can cure him."

Sam stared blankly at Strider.

Strider sighed and said, "What part did you not understand?"

Sam bit his lip and thought for a moment. "Ummm…the part after usin' small words and talkin' very slowly."

Strider exhaled in frustration. "Fro-do…stabbed…will die…needs help…Riv-en-dell…our on-ly hope."

"Oh, well then, oncest you puts it that a'way " Sam said as he began hurriedly scooping up his belongings, "what are we waitin' for?"

Frodo was unceremoniously plopped atop Bill the Pony, and they divided the baggage among the four of them. They made their way southward and quickly crossed the road in order to get to the wooded country beyond. After several days of trudging south then east through a grey and cheerless land, they at last climbed a woody ridge that gave them a vantage point for many miles around. Below them, they could see the road hugging the feet of the hills, and to the south, a turbulent river, followed by another river running near parallel to the first in the misty distance.

"Just skip the topographical and botanical descriptions, and get me the hell to Rivendell!" Frodo gasped as the pain in his shoulder nearly overwhelmed him.

"We'll have to risk the road for a bit," Strider said tensely. "We've got to cross the Last Bridge if we are to get to the Ford of Bruinen."

What good is it goin' to a car dealership?" Sam asked obliviously.

"We must 'ford' or cross the river at Bruinen, dolt!" Strider spat, uninterested in politeness at this point, "lest we shall never reach Rivendell."

After much trepidation and continually looking over their shoulders in fear of being chased by black riders, they crossed the bridge in relative safety. They then veered from the road once again and were soon lost in a wild area of somber, dark trees and rocky outcrops glowering like stony faces jutting from the glum, lumpy hills. The hills rose steeply as they made their way further, and here and there tumbled towers and ruined walls marked the crowns of the gloomy heights.

"It seems trolls is untidy 'ousekeepers," Sam said warily, expecting a troll to pop out from behind the surly trees at any moment; for they had indeed passed into Troll country.

"Trolls aren't builders, Sam," Strider sniffed as he brought himself around to another dreary historical point. "Men once lived here in ancient times, but no one lives here now. The people of this land fell under the evil sway of Angmar, and were destroyed in the wars that ended the Northern kingdoms of Arnor ages ago."

The Hobbits, having learned their lesson earlier, asked no more questions of Strider, and thus got some blessed relief from any further tedious history lessons. For the next few days, the company found themselves stumbling over rocky ground, getting soaked in the rain and generally feeling miserable. They had passed the point where Bilbo had had his famous battle with the stone Trolls, but sightseeing was secondary at this point, although Merry and Pippin did manage to buy some souvenirs from a local vendor. Merry particularly cherished his _'I Got Stoned With Trolls' _t-shirt, and wore it under his outer gear for the rest of the quest.

The road seemed untraveled and silent in the waning light of evening, but they dared not take the path at this late hour, although they knew that they eventually must risk it. Instead, they found a place to camp for the night down a deep bank filled with heather, brambles, thick lying gorse and wild hazel. Strider went off to collect some firewood, but no sooner had he stooped for the first branch, when he felt the cold touch of a steel blade tight against his throat. An alluring feminine voice said, "What is this? A Ranger caught off his guard?"

Strider relaxed a bit as the sword eased away from his gullet, then he turned and said, "Ah, my dearest love, I…oh…ummm…it's you Glorfindel."

A tall Elf with magnificent platinum locks, stylishly caparisoned in beautifully detailed riding gear with bold flashes of leather and gentle lace and a sweeping cloak, bowed before the ranger. "You were expecting maybe Arwen?" the Elf said in his high, clear voice (with just the hint of a lisp), and he winked in a rakish manner.

"Well, yes…no…errr…damned androgynous Elves," Strider muttered.

Frodo saw a vision of an angel with a bright aura surrounding or emanating from it. The shimmering faery came closer, almost floating in the air. The beautiful red lips parted and an ethereal voice filled Frodo's mind:

"Frodo... Im Glorfindel. Telin le thaed. Lasto beth nîn, tolo dan na ngalad."  
[_Translation: "Frodo, I am Glorfindel. I've have come to help you. Do you like the way I've done my hair? Such body, such bounce."_]

"Dartho guin Berian. Rych le ad tolthathon valarauko."  
[_Translation: "I may seem effeminate, but I once slew a Balrog."_]

Frodo threw up in his mouth a little.

After the dream sequence, it was decided that Frodo must reach Rivendell with all speed, as Glorfindel told them that the Ringwraiths were now both behind and before them. And the Hobbit would ride alone upon Asfaloth, Glorfindel's great Elvish steed -- because, after all, the Black Riders were only really after Frodo, and there was no need to unnecessarily endanger the rest of them. As they entered the road, they could hear the relentless pounding of hooves echoing off the grim hills. Glorfindel flung his head in a languid motion so that his flying golden hair caught the last tinges of sunlight, and he raised his hand up to his ear in the same fluid movement. He listened for a moment, then sprang forward and cried, "Fly! The enemy is upon us!"

Asfaloth reared majestically, shaking his shining mane and whinnying in such a picturesque manner that it was obviously mocking Glorfindel. With a playful wink to his frowning Elvish master, the horse then sped off down the road. One Black Rider appeared from the wood, and then another. These were joined by two more a bit further down the road.

"Ride on, Frodo, ride!" Glorfindel cried to the Hobbit, but he seemed reluctant to do so. Strangely, he slowed the horse to a walk and looked back to look upon the Black Riders. In his heart Frodo knew he must fly as Glorfindel commanded, but the Ringwraiths were silently calling to him, forcing him to remain.

"Ride forward, dammit!" Glorfindel growled. "Noro lim, noro lim, Asfaloth!"

Then the wiser horse ignored the dimwitted Hobbit altogether, and sped off on his own, racing like the wind towards the Ford of Bruinen. The Black Riders followed in mad pursuit, and terrible cries filled the air. These were answered by other Black Riders who were dashing toward the Ford to cut off Frodo's escape. But Asfaloth merely rolled its eyes and grumbled in exasperation. Imagine, mangy Mordor-spawned hackney mules trying to outrun a noble stallion of the Noldor. The very idea was equinely preposterous! With a tremendous kick and a sarcastic snort, Asfaloth blew past the black horses and sped through the foaming water of the Ford.

After Asfaloth scrambled up the far bank, he stopped and neighed fiercely, waving his private parts at his lowborn rivals. All nine of the Ringwraiths were now lined up along the water's edge, and Frodo's heart sank. He could go no further, as the will of the Nine forced him to halt.

"Go back to the land of Mordor and trouble me no more!" Frodo cried as he lifted his sword in feeble defiance. "Go back!" he whimpered.

"The Ring! The Ring!" the Black Riders cried but their deadly voices were muffled by the roar of the river.

"What was that?" Frodo shouted, unable to hear them clearly.

"Come back! Come back!" they replied.

"Thumb tack?" Frodo questioned.

"No, no!" they howled. "Come back! Come back! To Mordor we will take you!"

"Weevils shake you?" Frodo answered, now getting very annoyed. "You are not making any sense!"

The Black Rider's leader shook his head and shrugged. Without any further dialogue, he silently motioned his minions forward into the racing water. Suddenly, the special effects crew returned from lunch and turned on the wind machines. A loud roar ensued, followed by a tremendous rush of water. Frodo was faltering, but he dimly saw a great wave with plumes of white water that appeared to be rearing horses rushing down the rumbling course. It reminded him of the sandstorm scene in 'The Mummy' movie. He wondered if the scene was lifted from there. In any case, as Frodo lost consciousness the Black Riders were swept down the river, their fierce cries drowned under the roiling water.

**~ooOOoo~ooOOoo~ooOOoo~**

This is BBC War Correspondent Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque, traveling northward in the unpopulated and barren lands of Eriador. We've spent a considerable amount of time searching for that maleficent malefactor of malingering malevolence, the mightiest minion of Mordor, the WitchKing of Angmar, and finally our diligence has paid off. We've located the reclusive wraith floating languidly down a river just south of the Ford of Bruinen -- which must be the summer vacation hotspot for the Nazgul set. Let's see if he needs help getting out of the water.

**B.U.R. Picaresque:** Good morning, Mr. WitchKing. Can I lend you a hand?

_*The WitchKing emerges in silent menace from the river, but becomes muddled in the weedy bracken along the shore, his black cloak soaking wet and his steel crown askew at a rather jaunty angle atop his hooded head *_

**BURP:** Ah, there you go! Did you have a nice swim then? The current is rather brisk on this leg of the river, isn't it?

**The WitchKing:** Fool! Do you not know Death when you see it?

**BURP:** Well, considering you are invisible, I am not certain how to answer that. Any reply I could give would be rather transparent. Heh, transparent…invisible…a joke.

_*Dead silence*_

**BURP:** Oooh…tough crowd. But tell me, Mr. WitchKing…errr…may I call you WiKi?

_*Dead silence*_

**BURP:** Alright then, WiKi it is! Tell me, WiKi, what brings you up north to these parts? Have you checked out Rivendell? Nice atmosphere…very Elvish.

**WiKi:** Baggins.

**BURP:** Baggins?

**WiKi:** Baggins!

**BURP:** I met a Hobbit named Baggins once. He had this enchanted Ring that could turn you invisible…

**WiKi:** The Ring! The Ring!

**BURP:** Oh, you've heard of it then? Interesting novelty…great at parties.

**WiKi:** Baggins!

**BURP:** Hmmm…you're not much of a conversationalist are you? Perhaps I should have interviewed the _Mouth of Sauron_ instead. But please, forget about Baggins. I'd like to ask…

**WiKi:** Do not come between the Nazgul and his prey!

**BURP:** You're hunting for Baggins -- a Hobbit? Whatever for? Any race that considers eating their national pastime is quite useless, if you ask me. In any case, you won't find them up this way. The last time I saw any Bagginses was in the Shire out west of here.

**WiKi:** Shire! Baggins!

**BURP:** _*Sighs*_ And what exactly will the WitchKing do with this Baggins fellow once he finds him?

**WiKi:** We shall bear him away to the house of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where his flesh shall be devoured, and his shriveled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.

**BURP:** Yes…right. Well…seeing that there is not much beneath that robe of yours, I'd say that was a rather hollow threat. _*Ba-dump-bump*_ Ahem…but see here, WiKi, bullying about little Hobbits is not becoming to one of your evil stature. Someone should try to stop you!

**WiKi:** Hinder me? Thou fool! No living man may hinder me!

_*The WitchKing unsheathes his black Morgul blade and brandishes it menacingly*_

**BURP:** _*Backs away slowly* _Well… errr…actually, I was referring to Glorfindel or Gandalf or Aragorn -- someone of that ilk. You know, heroic types, used to risking life and limb and all. I'm not part of this story, really…I'm a reporter for the BBC…

**WiKi:** Fool! This is my hour. Die now and curse in vain.

**BURP:** The hour? Yes, would you look at the time. I really must be on my way! I appreciate the insightful interview, your…ummm…Wraithfulness. Hey, isn't that a Baggins over there?

_*As the Witchking turns to look, the reporter sprints away*_

**WiKi:** Come back! Come back! We shall not slay you in turn. To Mordor we shall take you.

**BURP:** *_Shouting as he runs_* Thanks for the invitation, WiKi, very hospitable of you -- in an insidiously malign manner. But I must decline the offer. Give me a ring and we'll do lunch some time. Oh…sorry about the ring reference.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen: Many Meetings, the Cliff's Notes Version -- Abridged and Amended for Modern Readers with Short Attention Spans (and Cats as well)**

Frodo awoke. "Where am I?" he said.

"In Rivendell," Gandalf replied.

"How long?"

"A few days."

"Where's Sam?"

"Here. Safe."

_*Intermittent flashing lights*_

"And Strider?"

"His name is Aragorn."

"He helped a lot."

"Well, he is heir of the Dunedain."

_*A jarring montage of various acts of random violence*_

"Not just a ranger?"

"Not just a ranger!"

"And where were you?"

"Delayed."

_*A picture of an Orc snarling, then a moth fluttering over daisies, then an atom bomb exploding*_

"Why?"

"All in good time."

"When?"

"Next chapter."

"Oh."

"But now, let us feast."

_*A film sequence of dangling string*_

Gandalf and Frodo met up with the three other Hobbits. They joked about. Gandalf was not pleased. They entered the hall. There was Glorfindel, and also Elrond. They looked Elvish. Then there were Elrond's kids, Arwen, Elladan and Elrohir. They looked Elvish as well, except Arwen was really hot. They sat next to a dwarf named Glóin. He did not look Elvish. He rattled on about various doings out East. After dinner, they found Bilbo. He had become an incredibly old fart without the Ring. He rambled on as well, reciting a rather impertinent poem regarding Eärendil. The Elves were marginally amused but sarcastic. They all then went to sleep.

_*An aquarium scene with brightly colored fish floating aimlessly about*_


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen: Council of Elrond – The Musical, Part I**

Frodo woke early, feeling quite refreshed after such an exceedingly short chapter. He walked out onto the terrazzo marble patio (or perhaps it was travertine, one could never be sure with the dissembling but décor-conscious Elves), and took in the breathtaking vistas of the valley of Imladris. The lawn was bejeweled with sparkling dew and there was a fragrant hint of a cool autumn breeze gently rustling the yellow leaves of the majestic trees that screened the imposing peaks of the snow-capped Misty Mountains, which served as a dramatic backdrop for the serene Elvish dale. Feeling he had offered an adequate vignette of his surroundings, Frodo dispensed with further picturesque exposition and met up with Gandalf and Bilbo, who even now were engaged in a heated discussion – so in-depth it was that they failed to notice Frodo's presence.

"But Gandalf, you do realize that the Elves will want to sing during the council," old Bilbo wheezed. "It is part of their nature. Like sexual ambiguity."

"No, there shall be no singing!" Gandalf barked with finality. "There is a point where one must stand for one's dignity, even in a parody such as this."

Bilbo managed a rheumy chuckle. "Old friend, we are at the mercy of a fan-fiction writer who, however unfortunately, has decided to lampoon the original author's penchant for adding singing at the most absurd times in the story. Just be glad he doesn't have a fetish for bowel movements, angst-ridden teenage vampires, or some other such asinine non-canonical elements."

Gandalf was about to protest again, but was interrupted by an uncontrollable bit of gas that ruffled his robes and reverberated with added emphasis off the stone slab upon which he sat. The wizard frowned mightily as he farted once more. Determined to overcome even the most absurd constraints of literary eccentricity, Gandalf nobly mustered his indefatigable will and opened his mouth to speak, but every attempted utterance was met with further farting. Sighing in defeat, he shrugged sadly and leaned back against the bench, lifting his robes to his knees in a vain effort to air himself out. It was then he saw Frodo, who was grinning broadly. Rather than risk soiling his undergarments, he merely motioned the younger Baggins over with a halfhearted gesture.

"Ah, Frodo!" Bilbo croaked excitedly while absentmindedly waving off Gandalf's gaseous after-effects. "Are you ready for our little meeting, then?"

"No, not really," Frodo muttered. "I was rather hoping to just drop the ring off here and be done with this accursed parody."

"So do all who live to see such farces," Gandalf said sympathetically, "but that is not for them to decide. Face it, we're stuck with the damned thing and we must muddle our way through as best we can."

Frodo did not find the wizard's words very reassuring and his spirit sagged noticeably. Gandalf smiled and added in consolation, "There are other forces at work in this world Frodo, besides the will of evil writers. Bilbo managed to get through _The Hobbit_ parody, just as you will manage to eke your way out of this tale. Look at the bright side, the grammar is impeccable and we are not reduced to grunting in monosyllables."

Bilbo nodded and grunted his agreement.

Gandalf rolled his eyes and said, "Come on, the bell is ringing for the start of the council. Let's get there early so we can get good seats."

**~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~**

And so the great Council of Elrond commenced. The attendees were all ringed around a central courtyard and in their midst stood a slightly raised rostrum and atop of this dais sat a table of stone -- well, more of a pillar, actually – upon which a floral arrangement was usually placed, but this had been removed to make more space for flowery speeches. Elrond was there, and many others of various races and attitudes. Frodo recognized a few, such as Glorfindel, Aragorn and Glóin, but Elrond beckoned him to his side and he sat at a place of honor with the Elves.

"Hobbit visitors in Rivendell -- twice in sixty odd years -- no small feat for those small feet, eh? Eh? Feat and feet -- lovely, lovely," Elrond chuckled, nudging Frodo. "It gives me great pleasure to welcome Frodo son of Drogo, here for a short engagement. Short, eh wot? Lovely!"

Then everyone round the circle introduced themselves in turn. First were the Elves, who all looked the same, ageless and androgynous, but all with well-managed hair and just a trace of rouge. These were Erestor, the favorite Elvish secondary character in fan-fiction (most likely because he was a virtual cipher and therefore malleable), the notably well-coifed Glorfindel, Galdor of the Havens, and a strange Elf (two words synonymous to some) from Mirkwood. He wore green and brown and was said to be the son of Thranduil the King.

Boldly he strode into the circle, bowed to Frodo and Elrond, and said, "I am Wegowas of the Woodwand Wealm. I bwing you gweetings fwom Thwanduil."

The Dwarves snickered but were silenced by a stern look from Elrond, who replied, "Greetings, greetings Wego…I mean Legolas (more snickering here), it is so good to see our Silvan kin in Rivendell. Lovely, just lovely."

Next up were the Dwarves. With Glóin was a younger dwarf with a bristling red beard and glittering eyes. This was Gimli, his son. Gimli strode forward even more forcefully than Legolas had, bowed so low his beard touched the ground and lilted, "Faith and begorrah! Sure'n 'tis a blessin' ta meet ye, wee li'l lepraun of a fella. May ther road rise to meet ye, and the wind be ever at yer back."

Bilbo cocked an eyebrow and whispered to Gandalf, "And here I always thought dwarves had Scottish accents in bad fan-fic, like that horrible one Peter Jackson wrote. This one seems to have an Irish brogue."

Gandalf shrugged and muttered, "Either that or Barry Fitzgerald has been teleported from 'Going My Way'."

Frodo, overhearing the conversation, whispered, "If he mentions his lucky charms, I won't be able to control myself."

Fortunately, the Dwarves returned to their seats, and a tall, haughty looking man from the south stepped warily up to the podium. "Ummm…hello…I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor," he said rather hesitantly, " and I haven't the slightest idea what I am doing here." He looked about at the odd assortment of Middle-earth races and frowned. "As a matter of fact, perhaps I've made a mistake. I think I should be going…"

"Nonsense, nonsense!" Elrond said cheerily. "All are welcomed, all will be explained, and all will go home with some rather lovely parting gifts." Elrond turned and winked at Gandalf, who cringed at what was coming next. The Master of the Last Homely House cleared his throat and sang:

___Welcome back my friends,_  
___All you Elves and Dwarves and Men,_  
___We're so glad you could attend --_  
___Come inside, come inside._

___Suspended on a string_  
_'__Round the neck of a Halfling_  
___Sits Sauron's fabled Ring_  
___What a ride, what a ride!_

___I Elrond, this story shall impart --_  
___Guaranteed to blow your head apart!_  
___Rest assured you'll get your battle's worth,_  
___Or darkness shall consume all Middle-earth!_  
___You've got to see the Ring! An amazing thing!_  
___You've got to see the Ring! We must destroy this thing!_

___And here we have Frodo,_  
___He's a Hobbit (they don't grow),_  
___And his uncle, dear Bilbo,_  
___From the Shire, from the Shire._

___Listen up, the story's about to start,_  
___Guaranteed to freeze a Nazgul's heart!_  
___You've got to see the Ring! An amazing thing!_  
___You've got to see the Ring! We must destroy this thing!_

___Each Hobbit had a quest,_  
___And now appear at our behest,_  
___For the future of the West_  
___Is our desire, our desire._  
___But once Isildur the King_  
___Chopped off that naughty Ring_  
___From Sauron's pinky finger_  
___When he died, when he died._  
___Grow up, grow up, grow up – Poor Frodo!_

___But Isildur did shiver _  
___When he fell into a river,_  
___And an arrow pierced his liver --_  
___A sad demise, sad demise._  
___Then the Ring came to a Stoor,_  
___Named Déagol, who was sure_  
___That a fish had bit his lure --_  
___Some surprise, some surprise!_  
___Grow up, grow up, grow up – Poor Frodo!_

___But Déagol was short shrift_  
___When his cousin became miffed,_  
___Wanted the One Ring as a gift --_  
___A birthday prize, birthday prize!_

___Sméagol killed his cousin, don't you know,_  
___Then became a lamp-eyed, lisping toad!_  
___Because the Ring is bad! It drove him mad!_  
___O the Ring is cruel! No family jewel!_

___But I shall not hog the glory,_  
___Let's hear each of your stories,_  
___Just mind not to be gory –_  
___We're rated Teen, rated Teen._  
___Roll up, roll up, roll up --_  
___See the R-I-I-I-I-NG!_

As the last squeal of a Hammond organ faded in synthesized dissonance, there were a few polite claps, and Elrond glared irritably at Galdor. "You were late on the timpani," he hissed, "and the bass line was a bit off."

"Well, you were the one who demanded an Emerson, Lake and Palmer composition," Galdor grumbled. "We did remind you that progressive rock was not our forte."

"Whatever," Elrond spat, but then he turned to the council and was all smiles. "Lovely! Wasn't that just lovely? Next up we have Glóin of the Dwarves with a simply lovely tune." He glanced back at the band and sniffed, "And since it only has three chords, it should not be too taxing for the musicians."

A lone tuba grumpeted lornly as Glóin made his way up to the rostrum. Planting the haft of his axe firmly against the stone, his basso voice boomed through the clear morning air:

___Oompa-loompa Boompadee-boom --_  
___This is a tale of Khazad__**-**____dûm._  
___Balin went there some time ago,_  
___What did happen? We do not know._

___Moria danced in our Dwarvish dreams,_  
___Filled our sails and fired our schemes._  
___We Dwarves were exiled ages ago,_  
___Fought through Orcs and dragons and snow._

___We even…_  
___We even… _  
___We even…_  
___We even helped poor Bilbo!_

___Oompa-loompa Doompadee-dor --_  
___A dark fellow came to Erebor._  
___He wanted to be friends with our King,_  
___He only wanted to find the Ring._

___He did ask where Baggins was at,_  
___But we Dwarves would not tattle like rats._  
___He said Mordor was bound to attack,_  
___But we dwarves would not turn our backs._

___We didn't…_  
___We didn't…_  
___We didn't… _  
___We didn't tell on Bilbo!_

___Oompa-loompa Boompadee-boo --_  
___This is the puzzle we offer to you._  
___You can be quite steadfast and true,_  
___Like doughty Naugrim from Khazad__**-**____dûm!_

"Lovely, lovely!" Elrond shouted with his best Elvish golf clap. "Short and sweet, eh? Short, very – ha-ha-ha! Next, I believe we have that rather reticent gent from down south, Boromir of Gondor. Take it away, Boromir!"

Boromir looked about uneasily at the other council members. "You want me to sing?" he cried in dismay.

Gandalf placed an empathetic hand on Boromir's shoulder. "It is the Elvish idiom," he said with a sad look in his eye. "Being immortal, they've gotten quite weird over the ages."

Boromir sighed and stood up. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

"Rather shy are we?" Elrond laughed. "Rather limp, eh? There's no White Tower of Ecthelion rising down there, eh? Eh? Well, the Elvish choir will certainly lend a…helping hand to finish the job!"

Boromir became more resolute at Elrond's chiding innuendo. He closed his eyes and began in a quavering voice, but was filled in amply by the Elvish choir:

**Boromir's Big Dream Sequence**

_**Boromir and the Noldorin Tab and Apple Choir:** Can any-body…tell me…just what I'm dreaming of?_

_**Boromir:** Each morning I get up and I'm tired -- can barely stand on my feet._

_**Choir:** Take a look in the mirror…_

_**Boromir:** I take a look in the mirror…_

_**Choir:** In the mirror!_

_**Boromir:** And cry._

_**Choir:** Cry!_

_**Boromir:** Stop that!_

_**Choir:** And cry._

_**Boromir:** Why are you mocking me?_

_**Choir:** N'yeah, n' yeah._

_**Boromir:** I've spent restless nights seeing broken swords, and I just can't get no relief, Lord!  
Somebody…_

_**Choir:** Somebody._

_**Boromir:** Oh, somebody._

_**Choir:** Somebody._

_**Boromir and Choir:** Can anybody tell me what I'm dreaming of?_

_**Boromir:** I work hard…._

_**Choir:** He works hard._

_**Boromir:** Everyday for Gondor. I have war wounds and broken bones.  
At the end…_

_**Choir:** At the end of the day._

_**Boromir:** I can't sleep…_

_**Choir:** Can't sleep!_

_**Boromir:** Without dreaming of Isildur's Bane.  
I hear voices that in Imladris is where it dwells, but it seems quite beyond belief, Lord!  
Somebody…_

_**Choir:** Somebody._

_**Boromir:** Oh, stop singing!_

_**Choir:** Somebody._

_**Boromir and Choir:** Can anybody tell me what I'm dreaming of?_

_**Boromir:** I work hard_

_**Choir:** He works hard._

_**Boromir:** For Denethor._

_**Choir:** Denethor._

_**Boromir:** I try and I try and I try,  
But even taking back Osgiliath, he still drives me crazy,  
He says, 'Go seek for the sword that was broken,'  
And here I go on some harebrained journey,  
For a quest that I've never believed in!_

_[Erestor's stunning lead using a penny in place of a pick in emulation of Queen's guitarist Brian May]_

_**Choir:** Freud please examine his dream  
Freud please examine his dream  
Freud please examine his dream  
Freud please examine his dream_

_**Boromir:** Somebody, somebody shut them up!_

_**Choir:** Freud please examine his dream  
Freud please examine his dream  
Freud please examine his dream  
Freud please examine his dream_

_**Boromir:** I can do this on my own!_

_**Choir:** Freud please examine his dream  
Freud please examine his dream_

_**Boromir:** Somebody?_

_**Choir:** Somebody!_

_**Boromir:** Anybody?_

_**Choir:** Anybody!_

_**Boromir and choir:** Can anybody tell me…_

_**Boromir:** Just what I'm…dreaming of!_

"Very nice -- very, very, very, very, very, very nice, Boromir! Quite lovely," Elrond tittered. "Of course, it's not up to Elvish standards, but for a mannish rendition…"

"When do we eat?" Bilbo bellowed.

"Bilbo, please, this council shall decide the fate of Middle-earth," Gandalf replied in annoyance. "You can damn well wait for lunch!"

"I bloody well cannot!" Bilbo shot back indignantly. "I am well passed my eleventieth birthday, and I could kick the bucket at any moment! I say we have lunch now, and I'll have no backtalk from you young whippersnappers!"

Gandalf rolled his eyes, Elrond sighed and Aragorn bit his lip in consternation.

"Well, perhaps a bite to eat would be a good idea," Glóin, whose tummy was rumbling, said thoughtfully.

Boromir shook his head as the council headed to the dinner hall. "This is absurd," he mumbled to Aragorn, "even for a farce."

"Oh, it get's better," Aragorn muttered sarcastically, "they haven't added in the moose, briny mollusks and llamas yet."


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty: Council of Elrond, The Musical – Part II**

As the council members trudged slowly through the buffet line in the Elvish cafeteria, Aragorn snuck off for a brief tryst with his inamorata, the Lady Arwen. They met in a secluded garden bower. The hyacinths and honeysuckles sweetened the warm afternoon air even though outside the hidden vale of Imladris it was cold and wet – Elrond, like his counterpart in Lothlorien, Galadriel, were Middle-earth's first HVAC specialists, controlling heat, ventilation and air conditioning in their ethereal enclaves. Such climate control must have led to some extraordinarily high utility bills, but we shall not dwell on that here; instead, let us concentrate on love. Ah, love! Every fan-fiction needs a romance, does it not? It is the reason that 90% of fan-fic writers are women, leaving the other 10% of us to dwell on decapitations, disembowelments and blowing things up. And so, before we relegate romance to the appendices and start exploding things right proper, we give you…a sentence or two of love.

"Oh Aragorn," Arwen sighed and gently traced the outline of the ranger's rugged face with her finger.

"Arwen, my love," Aragorn crooned as he stroked her lustrous black hair.

Meanwhile, back in the dining hall, Elrond had decided that the afternoon meeting would strictly contain Broadway show tunes, as Galdor and the band were complaining about Elrond's penchant for progressive rock. His hopes cruelly dashed for renditions of the entire 'Thick as Brick' album and the rock opera 'Tommy', Elrond bitterly acquiesced. Damn Elves! He grumbled to himself. Always mucking up his plans! Always overbudget on hair conditioner and highlights, always acting gay (not that there is anything wrong with that). They want Broadway, do they? I will give them Broadway, but in my own inimitably ironic fashion! So reflecting, he stood upon a refectory trestle table and began singing:

**Elrond**

_Welcome, good Dwarf, sit yourself down,  
You're at the last refuge around.  
As for the rest of Middle-earth,  
Let me just say it's gonna get worse.  
Seldom do you see  
A Half-elf like me,  
A freak of nature  
Destined to be…_

_Master of the house, homely as it is,  
But haughty Noldor like to call it Imladris,  
Teller of the tales, keeper of the keys,  
Bloody loremaster of these Elf monkeys,  
Stuck in Rivendell forever  
To spread the general alarm --  
I'd give back the bloody Ring  
If I knew that I could get away unharmed._

_Master of the house, damn this Elvish zoo,  
I'd even hang Eärendil if you asked me to.  
Council of the White, often called 'The Wise',  
Hypocrites and idiots I most despise.  
But everybody loves ol' Elrond  
Just keep him locked in Imladris  
Fighting now for ages, countless written pages  
Which aint worth a drunken Hobbit's piss._

_Enter Halflings, lay down your things,  
We'll soon sacrifice you to the Lord of the Rings.  
You must be tired, for now close your eyes,  
Before we push you out to your sad demise.  
Hopefully that Aragorn  
Will also die,  
So my daughter won't have to be  
His blushing bride…_

_Master of the house, don't nick the knives and forks  
Supposedly my wife was raped by horny Orcs  
But if that was the case, aren't Elves supposed to die?  
Was that an orgasm or an anguished cry?  
She left me for a long vacation,  
Took a ship to Valinor --  
But I'll never follow, cos' I think she swallowed,  
I'll never trust that dirty li'l…Noldor._

**Glorfindel**

_I died next to a Balrog, but the Valar sent me back,  
Now I'm forced to work with this Half-Elvish hack._

_Master of the House? Whatever do you mean?  
He's just a mangy mongrel with diluted genes.  
An eighth of him is this, a fourth of him is that,  
Add it altogether if you can do the math.  
He's always acting high and mighty,  
A sage that wears a dunce's cap --  
He somehow found a niche among the noveau riche,  
I tell you, it's all aristocrap._

**Elrond and the Council:** _Master of the House_…

**Glorfindel**: _Bastard by a half!_

**Elrond and the Council**: _Elvish Loremaster…_

**Glorfindel**: _Elvish? Don't make me laugh!_

**Elrond and the Council:** _Council of the White, great among the Wise.._

**Glorfindel:** _The better part of him ran down his mother's thigh!_

**Elrond and the Council**: _Everybody loves a Half-elf, they're fan-fiction's favored spouse…_

**Elrond:** _Raise a toast to me!_

**Glorfindel:** _Screw your family tree!_

**All: **_For Elrond is the Master of the house!_

**~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~**

With the big comic song and dance routine finished, lunch was over and the Council was recommencing. Alas, poor Aragorn was forced to sadly part from a sobbing Arwen with one last, loving embrace. Arwen swooned in a slow, languishing but languid movement back upon a bench as she watched -- with dramatic intensity – her love leave. And as her highly theatrical emotive gestures rose and fell, they were accompanied by a plaintive flute, and then a lone thrum of a harp, as if to insinuate a segue into another song. And sing she did:

_I don't know why I love him.  
To be an Elf in this position.  
He is short, I mean really short,  
He's so insecure about not being tall  
That I can't wear heels at all._

_I don't know how to take this,  
He's so worn and so scruffy.  
And he's a man, he's just a man.  
And I've had so many Elves before,  
I might just pick up one more._

_When we stand alone  
I must always look down,  
He isn't tall like Elendil --  
He doesn't wear a crown!  
I always thought I'd have it all,  
Why isn't Aragorn tall?_

_Am I being rather childish?  
Well, that's the way I've been written.  
I am vain, yes, really vain,  
I'm not like Xena,  
I'm a spoilt brat, running every show.  
Do adult men grow?_

_I'm just a pamper-ed prin-cess!  
As pure as slushy snow._

_Yet, if he did become king,  
I'd have a palace and position!  
I'd be rich, really friggin' rich --  
I'd slightly bow and wave my hand,  
Just like Princess Di.  
Then I'll say goodbye  
To an immortal life.  
Then I can get by  
As a short man's wife._

**~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~**

Now it came to the dreaded point that Gandalf feared far more than facing WitchKings or Balrogs or armies of Orc: he would have to sing! "Must it be a Broadway show tune?" he moaned to Elrond.

"Look, if I had to look like a damned fool, then it is only right that you should as well," Boromir shouted.

Gandalf gave the son of Denethor a sideways glance. "Self-righteous mortal prig," he spat.

Elrond, who was tapping his foot impatiently, huffed, "Yes, we all agreed at lunch that Broadway would be the featured genre for this afternoon's Council."

"I didn't agree to jack-shit," Gandalf grumbled.

"Nevertheless," Elrond replied indignantly, "that is the chosen format. So get on with it!"

Gandalf frowned with a wizardly malevolence that made even Elrond step back. Gandalf stood bolt upright and sang:

_Saruman, Saruman,  
Wants the things that Sauron has.  
He's got Orthanc fortified,  
And he trapped me just like a fly…  
Look out, here comes Saruman!_

"No, no, no!" Elrond bellowed. "Not some cartoon theme song, dash it all!" He then softened and looked at Gandalf sadly. "Friend Gandalf, it is not often that I ask favors of you, nor shall I plead for your indulgence now." Elrond then turned away, and Gandalf watched as each of the Council members looked away in turn. Gandalf sighed dejectedly and started singing in a high, creaky falsetto:

_When Sauron came out  
Of the Seeing stone,  
I bet my bottom dollar  
That Saruman had turned rogue._

_Just thinkin' about  
His treason,  
Was the reason  
For the many colors in his robe!_

_Atop of Orthanc,  
A prisoner,  
Until the great eagle came my way --  
It's Saruman! It's Saruman!  
He's building an army!  
And looking for the Ring always!_

Aragorn put his hands to his face, Boromir cringed, Legolas gasped and Gimli threw up in the bushes.

"Hmmm…it does lose something in the translation, I suppose." Elrond sighed.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One: The Ring Goes South, Takes a Turn East, Then Goes Back West, Retains a Southwesterly Direction for a Bit, Before Going East Altogether, Then South Again – But Not Necessarily All in this Chapter. So For the Time Being, Let Us Just Say the Ring Goes South…Southwest actually.**

After Gandalf's dreadful rendition of 'Tomorrow' from the musical _Annie_, Glóin recommended that the remainder of the council meeting be conducted in 'plain speech for plain folk' and that there should be no further singing. This motion was quickly seconded by Boromir. A special Council subcommittee was then formed to write the particulars of said recommendation, so that it could be voted on prior to being added as a codicil to the meeting minutes. The resolution was then sung aloud by the sergeant-at-arms (as it had not yet been ratified outside of committee):

___We here present do ordain,_  
___And henceforward command,_  
___That singing in these premises _  
___Should be forthwith banned._

___Decorum should prohibit _  
___Any sung or lyrical comment,_  
___Or tuneful asides, humming, or_  
___Musical accompaniment._

___In addition, we decree,_  
___After this motion's issuance,_  
___That speeches last three minutes total,_  
___And be granted no continuance._

___In conclusion, the subcommittee_  
___Proclaims with unified emphasis,_  
___That Elvish singing is really gay_  
___(Not that there's anything wrong with this)._

The resolution carried, but the vote was quite close and followed racial lines (the Elves, for their part, wished to maintain their lyrical prerogatives), further magnifying the tense nature of Middle-earth politics, and the great gulf that separated the Peoples of the West.

"Alrighty then, no more singing," Elrond sighed in defeat. But then, trying to be magnanimous, he added, "Yet wasn't that a lovely motion? Rhyming 'issuance' and 'continuance'? Risky, but simply lovely!"

Gandalf, who by now was bored to tears, blurted gruffly, "So, now we all know the history of the One Ring, that the Ring is completely evil, that it must be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom, yada-yada-yada. All that's left to decide is who will actually go on this mission – a mission bound to fail and one that nearly guarantees a gruesome death at the least, or, at worst, an eternity of untold, grisly torment at the black hands of Sauron. Any takers?"

There was a profound and lasting silence.

Elrond cast a worried glance at Gandalf. "Anyone?" Elrond asked plaintively. "Any at all wish to go on this lovely quest of certain death? Rest assured that the Elves shall sing reverently of your horrid deaths for ages to come. Quite a lovely memoriam, eh wot?"

Even the crickets stopped chirping.

Then, as if by unspoken command, all eyes turned to Frodo. "Don't look at me!" Frodo cried. "I nearly died bringing the nasty thing to Rivendell. I never said, 'I will take the Ring to Mount Doom'."

"Well, that's decided then," Elrond exclaimed in relief. "Who will join Frodo in this quest?"

Frodo jumped to his feet. "Wait just a minute! I just said, 'I never said' that I will take the Ring to Mount Doom."

"Right, thank you for your lovely offer, Frodo," Elrond smiled and patted the Hobbit on his curly head. "The Council will be forever grateful for your sacrifice, and mourn your untimely death when…if it comes." The Master of Imladris then proclaimed, "We shall even send your three companions -- Meriadoc, Peregrin and Samwise -- along with you for some added camaraderie and comic misadventure. After all, what's the loss of a few extra Hobbits, more or less?"

Samwise, who was hiding behind a bush, whimpered.

Gandalf began feeling rather guilty about getting Frodo caught up in this mess. Against his better judgment, he muttered, "I know I shall hate myself for this, but I will accompany you in this parody, Frodo -- If only to escape Rivendell. It is a silly place."

Aragorn, who had just had a spat with Arwen and needed some 'away time', knelt before Frodo, which actually wasn't necessary because he wasn't that tall. "If by my life or death I can assist you, I shall," he said nobly. "Besides, I'll never score some Elvish poontang if I don't become king."

Legolas then strode forward and nodded in that rakishly Elven manner, casually sweeping his blonde braids over his shoulder. "Even though the woad may be fwaught wif howwow, I, Wegowas, wiw fowwow you in this Fewwowship, and pawtake in your twials and twibuwations."

Gimli the Dwarf also came forward. "So, I'mma thinkin', mebbe dissa questa shoulda have a Dwarf along too, eh? We canna call ourselves 'La Compagnia dell'Anello'…how you say…ummm…Fellowshipa of a da Ring. Itsa catchy, no?"

Bilbo turned in exasperation to Gandalf and whispered, "What gives? Now the dwarf has a bad Italian accent instead of an Irish brogue!"

"I sense a recurring theme," Gandalf hissed.

Boromir, who had remained silent and dismayed throughout most of the meeting, finally rose from his seat. "You people…you can't be serious!" he gasped in disbelief. "Sending Hobbits to Mordor? Poisonous fumes, quicksand, bottomless pits, armies of Orcs -- it is insanity! I realize that this is a farce, and prone to ironic elements meant to be satiric in nature, but this is beyond the pale! Who thought up this bit of lunacy?"

"Tolkien," Elrond replied.

"Yes, Tolkien," Gandalf mused. "It is part of his original story."

Boromir opened his mouth to protest, but saw the serious looks on the faces of the other council members. "I'll go," he grumbled. "I'll go for Gondor. But I won't like it!"

**~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~**

In a quaint little room tucked away in a quiet corner of the Last Homely House, Frodo and Bilbo were busily making ready for Frodo's forthcoming journey. "This is Sting," Bilbo recounted casually, "made by the Elves, don't you know. When Orcs are about it glows blue. If it happens to glow red, then it means it's running low on juice. I've packed you some extra batteries for the trip. It sometimes glows bright pink…"

"What does that mean?" Frodo asked.

"I'm not quite sure," Bilbo shrugged, "it only happens when many Elves are about. In any case, here also is a chainmail shirt I got from Thorin. Standard Dwarvish make, I suppose. Not very stylish, but good to have in a scrape."

As Frodo was donning the mail, Bilbo caught sight of the One Ring hanging from a chain around Frodo's neck. "Oh, my old Ring!" Bilbo drooled excitedly. "Do you mind if I see it again – for old time's sake?"

Frodo saw a sudden change come over his uncle. He became the mirror image of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Frodo recoiled in horror at the gruesome spectacle, clutching the Ring as if he were in the presence of a Ringwraith. A spasm of rage crossed Lobelia's grizzled face, and it spat in a high-pitched, harridan howl, "Bloody, wankin' bas'ard! Gimme 'at there Ring or I'll 'ave yer stinkin' 'obbit 'ide, I will!"

Bilbo shuddered uncontrollably and some color returned to his face. "Sorry, about that, my dear lad. Every now and again, the Baggins side of me takes over, and I start droppin' me aitches. It's our family curse.

"Right," Frodo said, quickly buttoning his shirt up. "Well, would you look at the time? I must be on my way, Uncle Bilbo, so nice to see you again."

"So…I can't see the Ring?" Bilbo growled, looking more and more like Lobelia again every second.

"Ummm…no," Frodo peeped as he shrunk back against a wall.

"Blinkin' sod! 'Orse's arse! 'Allo, me old china - wot say we pop round the Jack. I'll stand you a pig and you can rabbit on about your teapots. We can 'ave some loop and tommy and be off before the dickory hits twelve!" Bilbo gasped and grasped his throat as if to stop the torrent of cockney rhyming slang from vomiting forth. "Run Frodo…run…before it is too late!"

Frodo bolted for the door. He had made it halfway down the hall when he heard a howl from Bilbo's room: "Got to my mickey, found me way up the apples, put on me whistle and the bloody dog went. It was me trouble telling me to fetch the teapots."

**~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~**

On a cold, gray day in December, the Fellowship finally assembled to take the first furtive steps of their journey. Aragorn was sad (he had caught Arwen in bed with Erestor, but she swore it wasn't what it seemed, as Erestor was…well…you know, Elvish), Boromir was sulking, Samwise was grumbling about not having enough rope, Merry and Pippin were grousing about the secondary nature of their roles, Gimli was variating between Jamaican and French accents, Legolas sprained his tongue trying to pronounce 'the rain in Eriador falls mainly on the ridges of Rhudaur', Frodo felt like throwing up, and Gandalf was, as usual, nowhere to be found.

After about an hour of interminable waiting, Elrond sent several Elves in search of the wayward wizard. After several more minutes, two Elves returned, dragging Gandalf between them. "We found him hiding in the stables," one Elf said to Elrond.

"Gandalf!" Elrond bellowed angrily. "You are late!"

"A wizard is never later, Master Elrond," Gandalf answered indignantly, "particularly when he has no intention of being on time."

After a rather lengthy bit of formal Elvish farewell oratory (they sometimes forget that not everyone is immortal), the Fellowship finally set off. "Gandalf, I do not know which way to go," Frodo said uneasily.

"Let us go this way, dear Frodo," Gandalf said in his usual officious yet sympathetic manner.

They had not walked for more than ten minutes, when Aragorn said, "Ummm…Gandalf, we are heading north. Shouldn't we be going south to get to Mordor?"

"Who said we are going to Mordor?" Gandalf replied irritably.

"Errr…isn't that the whole point of this Fellowship?" Frodo said.

Gandalf glared at the Hobbit. "That might have been the point of the Fellowship as it was originally conceived," Gandalf grumbled, "however, we are at the merciless whim of a writer who is more interested in cheap laughs than canonicity."

"So, where are we going then?" Samwise asked.

**~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~**

As Merry and Pippin tobogganed down a snowy hill, Gandalf adjusted his sunglasses and leaned back in his Adirondack chair. "More hot cocoa, my dear Hobbit?" he said to Frodo.

Frodo adjusted the bindings of his skis and happily accepted another mug of frothing hot chocolate. He laughed as he watched Legolas and Gimli arguing over the proper constitution of the snowman they were trying to build, and whether it should be short and stocky or tall and lithe. Aragorn was having a devil of a time making figure-eights on his skates (he got the V down pat, but was having trouble adding III), but Boromir was particularly annoyed – more so than usual.

"Gandalf, Gondor is being attacked by all the forces of Mordor," he growled. "My people could be overwhelmed at any minute! How long are we going to stay here at the Mount Gundabad Ski Resort and Day Spa? Gandalf, when are we leaving?"

Gandalf adjusted the colorful Navajo horse blanket on his lap. He looked out at the frosty, white wonderland and the alp-like mountain vistas looming in the background, and sighed wistfully. "In due time, my dear boy, in due time," he finally answered. "But that will be for the next chapter."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-two: One Small Step for Comedy, One Giant Leap Over Interminable Dialogue and Expansive Descriptive Passages**

Having escaped the dread delights of the Mount Gundabad Ski Resort and Day Spa, the Fellowship found themselves in the desolation of Hollin, standing before the very walls of the Misty Mountains, hard by a black lake.

"Hold on, jes' a minnit here," Sam squawked. "You can't just magically transport us from north of Rivendell to the Gates of Hollin. It just aint done."

Having overcome the snows of Gundabad and various other narrative enormities, the Fellowship found themselves in the desolation of Hollin, standing before the very walls of the Misty Mountains, hard by a black lake.

Sam was having none of it. "Look," he griped, "Gundabad is a Michelin three-star ski resort. We didn't overcome nothing but some rubbery croissants at breakfast one morning. What about the spying crebain? The attack of the supernatural wolves? The storm up in Redhorn Gap?"

They weren't funny.

"Oh, so story-hoppin' is funny is it?"

No, but a giant octopus in a freshwater lake five-hundred miles from the sea is rather ironic.

"Well, I'll give you that one," Sam said, scratching his head. "But the readers'll bitch about skippin' willy-nilly over their favorite passages."

Readers? Please, it's not like the viewers of this parody are from some collegiate literary circle intent on discussing plot points in detail, or researching source material. I could type out any number of asinine subplots and no one would notice.

"You…you shouldn't sell the readers short," Sam sputtered in indignation. "It aint right -- it just aint!"

Rebecca was beside herself with anxiety. She had broken Auntie Miranda's favorite vase while spinning her dreidel. The monumental piece of porcelain had sat for years in doilied splendor atop the ornate mirrored credenza in the formal parlor. Now, the cerulean blue and milk white shards were scattered in profusion over the Oriental rug Uncle Bertram had bought for Auntie after he came home one night drunker than sin and smelling like a cathouse laundry basket. Rebecca cursed in Swahili and spanked the llama that had mistaken the parlor for the Argentinean pampas and was innocently nibbling the fringes of the rug. Considering the restraints of human bondage, Atlas shrugged at the doors of perception. Perhaps the postman always rings twice, he thought; unfortunately, as his hands were tied, he bade a farewell to arms and goodbye to all that, and left the house of mirth, walked down on the road, Tobacco Road, which stretched from here to eternity.

"Point well taken," Samwise muttered begrudgingly.

Either that or I'll rifle through the basest of Python skits and simply rabbit on about spam or penguins blowing up on the telly. People like to be clubbed upside the head with humor, particularly if they are being clubbed by a sea bass or an albacore tuna. Fish clubbing is very funny in some circles. Just glaze them in mayonnaise and take out a tuna…

"Would you two mind stowing the inane metafictional blather!" Gandalf growled in consternation. "I am trying to divine a spell of opening for this damnable Dwarven door, and postmodernism will not avail us here. It is hopeless!"

"The sun also rises," Sam said in his best, literarily hopeful manner.

Gandalf merely scowled and continued his litany of hexes, incantations and invocations.

"What does that Elvish script along the lintel say, Gandalf?" Frodo asked.

"Ennyn Durin Aran Moria: pedo mellon a minno. Im Narvi hain echant: Celebrimbor o Eregion teithant i thiw hin," Gandalf mumbled.

Frodo glanced sidelong at Samwise, who merely shrugged. "No…ummm…Gandalf," Frodo said hesitantly, not wishing to further irritate the cranky wizard, "what I mean is – what exactly does it mean? In plain speech, if you wouldn't mind."

"The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak friend and enter. I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Eregion drew these signs," Gandalf sighed. "So, one merely speaks the password and the damned doors open."

"What if you just spoke the word 'friend' in Elvish. It could just be a riddle."

"Don't be silly, Frodo, what kind of secret door requires you to simply read the inscription and the door opens? Besides, I just said 'mellon' a few sentences ago."

"Well, maybe you didn't say it friendly enough."

"Or perhaps we haven't reached a suspenseful climax in the narrative as of yet," Samwise added, continuing his newly acquired belletristic persona.

Meanwhile, Pippin was skipping stones along the surface of the black lake.

"Don't do that!" Aragorn snapped anxiously.

"Why, does the lake contain a hidden menace that even now lurks ominously just below the surface of the dark water?" Pippin asked.

"No, you are getting my boots wet. They are suede," Aragorn replied as he gingerly brushed the nap of his footwear.

Based on Frodo's suggestion, Gandalf repeated the Elvish word "mellon", but this time he gave the doors a knowing wink and humped the wall lasciviously. To his surprise, the doors groaned open. "Quickly, inside all of you," he shouted, "before the doors become jaded!"

Once inside Moria, Gimli the Dwarf waxed poetic _en français_ about the wondrous Naugrim realm. "Eet ees, how you say, tres bien, eh? Seigneur Balin ees un pygmée légendaire! Le petit prince weel geeve us the joyeux et royale welcome, eh?"

Legolas grimaced in disdain as he looked about at the rubble and skeletons strewn in great piles on the cavern floor. "This pwace is more like a gwave than a pawace. It is atwocious!"

Between Gimli's horrid French accent and Legolas' speech impediment, poor Frodo felt as if he were trapped in a Looney Tune with Pepe LePew and Tweety Bird. But before he could speak, a great slimy tentacle coiled about his ankle and lifted him from the ground.

As Frodo screamed like bloody hell, the director cued the musical score for the big Kraken attack scene:

_I'd like to be under the sea  
In an octopus' garden in the shade  
He'd let us in, knows where we've been  
In his octopus' garden in the shade…_

"Excuse me," the scriptwriter interrupted from behind the director's chair, "but do you think that song is appropriate, given the gravity of the scene?"

"Certainly," the director replied with supreme confidence, "such jarring juxtapositions of lighthearted song and violent scene are a staple amongst we progressive directors. Just look at Kubrick's use of 'Singing in the Rain' in _A Clockwork Orange_, or Scorsese's subtle interplay of the piano outro of 'Layla' and several grisly murders in _Goodfellas_."

_We would be warm below the storm  
In our little hideaway beneath the waves  
Resting our head on the seabed  
In an octopus' garden near a cave…_

"I suppose," the screenwriter grumbled, still unconvinced, "but I must also protest the use of the word 'Kraken' in regards to the _Watcher in the Water_. Tolkien never once used the term 'Kraken'.

"Tolkien this, Tolkien that…blah, blah, blah," the director spat conceitedly. "Nobody reads anymore, so Tolkien's opinion is superfluous in cinematic matters. This is my film and the original story is merely clay in my hands – to be molded as I see fit, for the greater glory of my art!"

_We would shout and swim about  
The coral that lies beneath the waves  
(Lies beneath the ocean waves)  
Oh what joy for every girl and boy  
Knowing they're happy and they're safe  
(Happy and they're safe)*******_

"But…are the animated dancing seahorses and twirling starfish really necessary?"

"It worked for Disney."

Frodo was now in dire straits. While the Watcher in the Water was intent on dragging the Hobbit and the One Ring beneath the waves, the other members of the Fellowship were frantically running about, trying desperately to rescue their endangered comrade.

_"Baruk Khazâd_! _Khazâd ai_**-**_mênu khalamâri_!" Gimli roared. "The axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you, squid!" And he buried his axe in one of the monstrous octopod's tentacles.

"Awwow, Awwow, stwaight and twue," Legolas cried as he raised his bow, "fwy fwom my stwing and piewrce him thwough!"

Sam sat down and munched an apple, wisely gathering his strength for the battle.

Aragorn and Boromir acted in tandem, madly brandishing their bright blades against the tentacular attack of the salacious sea monster, whose seductive suction cups both repelled and excited the flailing Frodo. After several flights of arrows and with numerous arms lopped off (the Watcher was more of an Octadecapus, obviously), the beast finally relinquished his prize, and Boromir dragged the drenched Hobbit from the lake. With all speed, the weary Fellowship rushed into the cave, while the Watcher in the Water angrily toppled the massive gate with a few forearmed flourishes. Tons of stone came crashing down and the last light from the outside world was abruptly snuffed out.

"It's dark," Merry whispered.

"And hairy," Sam added.

"Samwise, get your hands off of my beard!" Gandalf shouted.

There was a prolonged silence, occasionally punctuated by a cough or two as the dust settled.

"So…" Frodo said to no one in particular, and no one answered.

"Have I said that it's dark?" Merry repeated.

"And flabby," Sam added.

"Samwise, stop touching my buttocks!" Gandalf shouted, and then the lightless cavern again fell silent for several minutes.

"Well, I suppose we should do something." Boromir blurted at last.

"Yes, but what can we do in this darkness?" Aragorn replied.

Silence.

"Gandalf?" Frodo said plaintively.

"What?" the wizard hissed.

"What shall we do now? The Hobbit asked.

"Nothing," Gandalf answered with finality.

"Nothing?" Frodo questioned.

"Nothing!" Gandalf said.

"Nothing!" Frodo echoed.

The wizard grumbled beneath his breath, and then said, "It would seem that writer of this particular parody has been forced to smoke cigarettes outside due to health concerns regarding second-hand smoke by his diabolical and utterly unreasonable significant other; therefore, we can't do a damned thing until he returns."

Frodo, who only had knowledge of pipes, asked, "And how long does a cigarette take to smoke?"

"Too long, obviously," the wizard grunted.

"Well," Samwise said with a great heaving sigh, "p'raps we should take a smoke break -- in keeping with the situation and all."

And smoke they did.

**Editorial Comment: **_Smokin's bad fer ye. Matter 'o' fact, everythin' fun 'n' enjoyable'll be bad fer ye one way or t'other. Like unnatural sex, fer instance. Oh sure, there'll be those who say 'don' be a' puttin' yer winkie where god ne'er intended it to go -- there aint nothin' finer than a virginer'. Yet I aint ne'er had relations with a missionary as it jes' aint me style, and I aint sure it would be all that pleasurable, what wi' recitin' 'em biblical verses 'n' all. But man has a way 'o' puttin' his tadger in all sorts 'o' things he ought'nta: coke bottles, jello molds, sheep, chickens and mustard pots (which burns somethin' fearful, I can tell ye). So, ye quit smokin' and ye quit puttin' yer poker in improper places, and where does that leave ye? Ye can't be joinin' the priesthood, as the Vatican has finally got 'round to outlawin' fondlin' altar boys, and ye can't smoke sausages cos' they don't draw too well and the filters don't stay 'ttached fer long. Yer mighters well play bingo with t'other old ladies and sew quilts fer cancer patients, then drop off inter a vegertative state and collect yer drool in a cup 'ttached t'yer chin. 'At's the way I sees it, anyways._

**Editorial Disclaimer:**_ This has been an editorial comment by Sir Winston Coitus Blodgett, KBE, MP, of Waxing Wick, Strumpetshire, Winchelsea. The editorial staff neither condones nor understands what has just been said, but it is evident that, since it has been said, it was obviously necessary to be said, at least in context with 'saying such things' that have been spoken in an ongoing effort to communicate said 'saying of things' rendered as 'having been said', so to speak. And so say all of us._

*****Additional Disclaimer:** _Octopus's Garden Lyrics by The Beatles are the property of the respective authors, artists and labels, Octopus's Garden Lyrics by The Beatles are provided for non-profit purposes only. If you like the song, please buy the relative CD. As if Sir Paul needed anymore money. Send your money to Ringo instead. Poor Ringo!_


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-three: A Room with a Tomb in the Gloomy Womb of Khazad-dûm **

BBC War-correspondent Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque here at _The Morannon_, gateway to that loony lunar landscape known as Mordor, and home to that mysterious master of malevolence, Sauron, aka the Dark Lord, Annatar, Gorthaur the Cruel, the Necromancer, et cetera and so on. Unfortunately, due to Sauron currently appearing as a monstrous blinking beacon atop the tall radio tower at _Barad_**-**_dûr_, we could not secure an interview with the Great Eye, so we ended up with the Mouth of Sauron instead…which I suppose is better than getting the Sphincter of Sauron or the Spleen of Sauron, or some other detestable part of the supposed Lord of the Rings. And so, without further ado, the Mouth of Sauron:

**B.U.R. Picaresque:** The Mouth of Sauron…is that with one eye or two?

**Mouth of Sauron: **…

**B.U.R.P.:** Heh…thought I'd inject a little wit there.

**Mouth of Sauron:** Very little wit.

**B.U.R.P.: **Right. Ummm…I must say that approaching this interview proved very difficult, because we just don't know much about you.

**MoS: **You know all you need to know. I am the Lieutenant of the Tower of Barad-dûr and spokesperson of Sauron the Great.

**B.U.R.P.: **Hence 'the Mouth of Sauron'…

**MoS: **Hence the Mouth of Sauron!

**B.U.R.P.: **But our readers wish to know more about you. What makes you tick, your history and such.

**MoS: **I am the Mouth of Sauron.

**B.U.R.P.: **Yes, I believe we've established that. But what is your real name?

**MoS: **I don't remember.

**B.U.R.P.: **How old are you?

**MoS:** I can't recall.

**B.U.R.P.: **Where do you come from?

**MoS:** I have forgotten.

**B.U.R.P.: **Well, this is your lucky day because…MOUTH OF SAURON, _THIS IS YOUR LIFE_!

**MoS: **I beg your pardon?

**B.U.R.P.: **Born to a family of Black Numenoreans in the City of Corsairs in Umbar…

**MoS:** Is this a jest?

**B.U.R.P.: **…the Mouth of Sauron was originally named Gustave Adolphus Schwartz…

**MoS:** I never was!

**B.U.R.P.:** …A sad loner and a mediocre student…

**MoS:** I was not!

**B.U.R.P.: **...Gustave dropped out of school and left home at sixteen…

**MoS: **This is ridiculous!

**B.U.R.P.: **Oh, it gets better…Mouth of Sauron, do you remember this voice –

_He don't call, he don't write…why for my Gussie leave me dis way? He coulda been somebody, like his older brother Willie. _

**MoS:** Oh for the love of…

**B.U.R.P.: **That's right, Gussie! It is the Mother of the Mouth of Sauron!

**MoM: **Gussie, not even a Christmas card do you write? Now, your brother Willie he visits all the time. He's a lawyer – a big shot – he knows how to treat his mother! Why for you cannot be like him?

**MoS:** Well, I meant to write…I've just been very busy.

**MoM:** Busy? For the last 68 years!

**MoS:** Has it been that long?

**MoM:** Yes, it been dat long! Ever since you left school and fell in with dat bad crowd. I told your brother Willie dat no good will come of it!

**MoS:** Well, I am very important…I am the Lieutenant of the Tower of Barad-dûr…

**MoM:** Bah! A toady for some hoodlum! Why for you not go to college like your brother Willie? Now, he made something of himself. He is respected in the community. He's not a gangster!

**MoS:** Please, stop talking about Willie!

**MoM: **You break my heart, Gussie. Missus Klepperman from down the street, her one son is a podiatrist and the other son is an accountant. She makes sure to throw dat in my face at every bridge tournament!

**MoS:** I am very sorry, but someday I will become governor of all Western Middle-earth and my throne will be in Orthanc, just as soon as…

**MoM:** Always with the big dreams, Gussie! But you never apply yourself. Always with bad report cards, always noted as 'classic underachiever' by school counselors. I never had problems like dat with your brother Willie.

**MoS:** Would you please stop talking about Willie! It was always 'Willie this' and 'Willie that' -- he was such a brownnoser and a little snitch!

**MoM:** You coulda learned something from your brother Willie…

**B.U.R.P.: **We'll now leave this touching family reunion and return you to your regularly scheduled program, already in progress.

**MoS: **But I tell you I am important!

**MoM:** Pffft! You're nothing but a secondary character with a paragraph or two to show for yourself. Now, your brother Willie…

**~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~**

Having finished their smoke break, the Fellowship moved stealthily for hours down to the very bowels of Moria.

"Must we be in the bowels of Moria?" Frodo winced with distaste.

"Well, Moria is a black pit by definition, so to the bowels we must go," Gandalf replied.

Gimli frowned at the rather callous comments the others were making about his beloved Dwarvish city. "Y'all best be watchin' what yer done sayin' there," the dwarf drawled with a noticeable Southern twang, "this here be the Dwarrowdelf, what some might be callin' Kay-Zad-Doom, I reckon. And it aint no black pit t'all. More'n likely it's what y'all would call a shrine for us here Dwarvish folk -- sorta like Graceland…but without Elvis."

"Who does youw intewiow decowating, the Mummy?" Legolas said with a smirk.

"Damn Yankee Elves," Gimli grumbled.

Suddenly, the Fellowship came to a great stone archway with the three dark passages snaking off in different directions. Gandalf stopped dead in his tracks and lifted his staff (with that incandescent glowing knobby thing at the top) in hopes of seeing some inscriptions that would aid in their decision on which path to take. Cursing under his breath, the wizard sat down upon a boulder. "I have no memory of this place," he muttered dejectedly.

"Well aint that a kick in the crawdads!" Gimli grumbled. "It shore aint likely I can be of aid at this here juncture, what with not ne'er bein' here a' fore."

"Look, what if we split up into three groups and each goes a separate direction?" Boromir said sensibly. "Aragorn and I shall go through the center passage and the rest of you fairytale creatures can choose the path that seems best to you."

"But if we did that, we might never find each other again," Sam moaned.

Boromir raised a scornful eyebrow at Sam. "Oh, that's what you wanted," the Hobbit said with a frown.

"Well. There's no sense in any of us going off half-cocked," Aragorn said, "begging your pardon for the expression," he added with a nod to the Hobbits. "We should just sit tight until Gandalf gets his bearings…the senile, bitchy old fart."

Gandalf looked up from his silent musing. "What did you just say, Aragorn?" he snapped.

"I said, 'the aisle in which we part'," Aragorn replied quickly. "Ummm…meaning…which passage should we choose? Hmmm…yes, which aisle to take?"

Gandalf rolled his eyes. "There's nothing for it now but to rest up a bit. I think there's a guardroom yonder where we can be reasonably safe."

And they all huddled in the dusty guardroom, which featured a cistern with a broken stone slab leaning precariously atop the rim. Ever brimming with Hobbitish curiosity, Pippin leaned over the edge and stared down, down, down the inky black well. It seemed fathomless to the Hobbit, a precipice from whence one drops to the very core of Middle-earth. Intrigued, Pippin dropped a stone down. For many moments there was no sound whatever, then a _plink_ could be heard, followed by a whole cacophony of _plinks_ and _planks_ and _plunks_.

Gandalf jumped up with a start. He was very angry and concerned, and it took all of Pippin's fortitude to admit he was the culprit. "Fool of a Took!" the wizard growled in that famous Gandalfianistic manner. "Next time throw yourself in and decrease the surplus population!"

Gandalf, of course, had confused his Bartlett's famous quotations, mixing Tolkien with that of Dickens, but no one wished to correct him at this point. But he soon mellowed a bit, as Pippin had seemingly done no real damage with his antics. He was just about to apologize to the chastened Hobbit when booming sounds came welling up the…ummm…well: _Boom-ba-boomp, Boom-ba-boomp, Boom-ba-boomp, Boom-ba-boomp_. Gandalf turned angrily toward Pippin, but the echoes became louder:

_Boom-boom-boom-boomp-ba-boomp_

Aragorn started humming along, quickly followed by Legolas…

_Boom-boom-boom-boomp-ba-boomp_

The rhythm became infectious and Boromir began whistling the string parts…

_Boom-boom-boom-boomp-ba-boomp_

Gimli began tapping his knife on his shield in cadence…

_Boom-boom-boom-boomp-ba-boomp_

Then Samwise, with his thumbs tucked in his suspenders, began singing in his high Hobbitish tenor, followed in harmony by the other Hobbits::

_Poor old Johnny Ray  
Sounded sad upon the radio, he moved a million hearts in mono.  
Our mothers cried and sang along and who'd blame them.  
Now you're grown, so grown, now I must say more than ever.  
Go Toora Loora Toora Loo-Rye-Aye  
and we can sing just like our fathers._

_Come on Eileen,  
I swear (well he means) At this moment you mean everything,  
With you in that dress my thoughts I confess verge on dirty  
Ah come on Eileen._

_Boom-ba-boomp, Boom-ba-boomp, Boom-ba-boomp, Boom-ba-boomp_

Then in a great chorus line, the whole Fellowship began high stepping and singing in unison:

_Come on, Eileen too-loo rye-aye  
Come on, Eileen too-loo rye-aye  
Toora toora-too-loora_

_Now you have grown, now you have shown, oh Eileen  
Come on Eileen, these things they are real and I know  
how you feel  
Now I must say more than ever  
things round here have changed  
Too-ra loo-ra too-ra loo-rye-aye*******_

Gandalf, coming to his senses, walked briskly out of the guardroom and stared again at the archway with its three looming corridors. "Ah, we shall take the passage to the left," he said with conviction.

"Why, does the air seem less stifling that way?" Frodo asked.

"No, I'm just taking a wild stab in the dark here," Gandalf replied. "We must flee quickly if I am ever to escape this damnable singing!"

They traveled another eight hours or so in the darkness following the indefatigable Gandalf, aided occasionally by Gimli, who tried valiantly to keep his various sibyllic accents in check. At last, they came to an immense hall with great stone columns the girth of which were like boles of ancient oaks. They rose majestically to the unseen reaches of the ceiling, a towering forest of granite looming towards the heavens.

"The Dwarves were obviously compensating for something," Boromir laughed, but he stifled his snickering when Gimli shot him a deadly glare.

Pippin once again let his curiosity get the best of him, and began nosing about the great hall. He found a door and swung it wide. "Hey!" he called to the others, "there's a big room over here with what looks to be an immense marble sarcophagus in the center."

Of course, Pippin didn't actually say 'immense marble sarcophagus', this is merely an anglicized translation of the Westron 'big, stupid stone thingy'; nevertheless, he got his point across and Gimli came rushing in with a feeling of excitement mixed with trepidation (which would be extrepiditement, I suppose).

"They've brought a cave troll," Boromir hissed in exasperation.

"Not yet, not yet!" Gandalf barked. "Please, follow the script!"

But their discussion was silenced by the shrill cry of Gimli, who they found groaning and wailing mournfully at the base of the tomb. "Balin, Balin!" he lamented. "Alas, he is dead! How could this have happened?"

The other members of the Fellowship were amazed and confounded, not only because they knew from the moment they entered Moria that they'd find nothing but dead Dwarves, but also because Gimli had spoken in clear, unaccented English!

Never one to miss stating the obvious, Sam said, "Well, anyway, he looks to have been dead for quite a long time, Gimli, just like the rest 'o' your folk."

Gimli cried out in anguish, and Gandalf thwapped Sam soundly on the ear.

"They've brought a cave troll," Boromir hissed in exasperation.

Gandalf rolled his eyes. At this point, falling to a Balrog seemed more and more inviting.

*******_Come On Eileen Lyrics by Dexy's Midnight Runners are the property of the respective authors, artists and labels. Come On Eileen Lyrics by Dexy's Midnight Runners are provided for educational purposes, or in this case irony, given that this is likely the most exposure Dexy's Midnight Runners have gotten for the past 10 years. In any case, no on one's making any money off this. So, at least go buy the song, as the CD may be more than is necessary_.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four: The Bridge of Sighs**

After a respectful period of mourning for Balin (which lasted, in a parody such as this, approximately eight words), the Fellowship rummaged about the room in hopes of finding some clue about the fate of Balin and his followers. In a recess hewed from the very stone of the mountain there lay a great wooden box, now smashed and rifled through by plundering Orcs, its shivered lid still partially hanging from rusted hinges. Next to the smashed and rifled wooden box with shivered lid hanging from rusted hinges that lay in a recess hewed from the living rock was a another box, this one a black iron cask, now bent and twisted, with a stained satin lining. Close by the bent and twisted black iron cask with the stained satin lining that was next to the smashed and rifled wooden box with shivered lid hanging from rusted hinges that lay in a recess hewed from the living rock was the skeleton of a Dwarf, still clad in mail and wearing a round but riven steel helm atop his cloven skull. Clutched in the bony fingers of the skeletal dwarf, who was still clad in mail and wearing a round, riven helm that was close by the bent and twisted black iron cask with the stained satin lining that was next to the smashed and rifled wooden box with shivered lid hanging from rusted hinges that lay in a recess hewed from the living rock was a…

"All right, all right, that will be quite enough of that unnecessary exposition!" Gandalf barked. "Get to the point!"

There was a book.

"Yes?" Gandalf huffed impatiently.

That is it, just a book.

"Well, what about the book?" Gandalf said with a raised eyebrow.

It is a book. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Aren't you going to describe the book?" the wizard hissed through clenched teeth.

No, I don't think so.

Gandalf rolled his eyes, and while the narrator pouted, the wizard decided to take matters into his own hands. Gingerly, Gandalf attempted to lift the book from the dead Dwarf's grasp, but the skeleton's grip remained firm. Again, with a bit more force, Gandalf pulled. The dead Dwarf's arms rose from the dust as if it would yield up its treasure, but it suddenly snapped the book back to its bony bosom.

"You are doing this, aren't you?" Gandalf griped at the narrator.

I am sure I don't know what you are talking about.

"Look, this bit is getting old," Gandalf sighed. "Would you please get on with the narration so that we can read the contents of this book?"

And what are the magic words?

"There are magic words?"

Yes.

Gandalf bit his lip in consternation, then mumbled under his breath, "I am sorry."

A bit louder, please, I didn't catch that.

"All right, dash it all, I am sorry!"

Immediately, the skeleton of the Dwarf crumbled to dust and the book lay in a rusted pile of crumpled chain mail. The book itself was a large leather volume, stained black with age and old blood. The cover was singed along the edges as if the Orcs had attempted to burn it, and a great, livid slash mark rent the cracked leather binding. Gandalf took up the volume carefully and laid it atop Balin's tomb. The dry parchment crackled and broke as he turned a page, but need drove Gandalf onward. He pored over the brittle pages in silence for some time.

While still scanning the volume avidly, Gandalf finally said, "Hmmm…it seems to be a Dwarvish version of a Day Planner."

"A Day Planner?" Samwise blurted. "Wha's that?"

Gandalf's eyes remained glued to the flowing script that ran down the pages. "Back in the olden days, before e-mail and laptops, businessmen, such as the Dwarves, carried about Day Planners to keep track of appointments, schedule lunch dates, carry business cards, and so on. Very primitive, but effective in a rather anal sort of way."

"But is there anything important to us in there?" Frodo asked impatiently.

"Well," Gandalf drawled distractedly, "the first section has nothing but addresses, cell phone numbers and birthdays – the usual stuff. It gets more interesting later on. After a note that says '_send __Óin__ a Durin's Day card'_, it says _'Balin, Lord of Moria, has fallen'_.

"Ah, so he is dead then," Samwise said.

Gandalf looked up from the book and thwapped Sam on the ear again. Looking back at the text, the wizard then began muttering in that annoying sort of way that usually occurs when one would dearly like to hear what is being said but is precluded from doing so due to the selfish preoccupation of the speaker. What the Fellowship did hear was a jumble of mumbles: "There are pages missing…this section is smudged, but I believe it says '_we've run out of females_'…then it says…no, this can't be right…I believe it says "_Ori has taken up belly dancing_'…another page is missing, damn it…then it says…oh, I can barely make it out…_'unnatural unions'_...and '_coupling in dark places'_…then it says '_Bums, bums in the deep'_, and finally _'in your rear._"

"Bums in the deep?" Frodo said.

"In your rear?" Merry added.

"Well, it's very dark in here, and the penmanship is quite atrocious," Gandalf grumbled. "Perhaps it says '_Drums in the deep_', which would be in keeping with Ori learning to belly dance, I suppose."

Suddenly the boom, boom, boom of distant drums echoed from outside the room.

"It is Orcs!" Aragorn shouted, "They are coming!"

"We are trapped in here!" Boromir cried.

"Do you s'pose they came for belly dancin' lessons?" Sam asked.

"Quickly, bar the door!" Gandalf yelled.

Aragorn and Boromir slammed the door shut just as arrows came whizzing through the darkness and thumped into the stout wood.

"They've brought a cave moose!" Boromir hissed as he peered through the keyhole.

"Cave moose?" Frodo laughed. "There's no such thing as cave mooses…err…moose."

"Yer dårn tøøtin' dåt dere be cave møøses!" Gimli, now over his melancholy and back to bad accents, growled. "Dem be descended from døse dere Norvegiån Spruce Møøse. Long time ågo, it be, dem dere møøses sought shelter from der elerments, und kommen to dese here cåves, sose dey could låy der eggs mittout fær! Søme gøtt schtuck inzide heren und schtåyed."

"Ummm, but moose…don't…lay…eggs," Frodo sputtered.

Course'n dey dø, seely li'l Holbyta!" Gimli tutted. "Cave møøse is der staple øv dem dere Orcsies. From dem dey gets der milch und eggs!"

From the back of the room, Pippin shouted, "Hey, I've just found a clutch of some rather huge, hairy eggs!"

"It is just as I feared," Gandalf groaned, "a brood moose! And now we stand between it and its misbegotten progeny!"

The Fellowship backed away from the door and made themselves ready for battle. From without, they could here the snarky chuckling of the Orcs and the dread bellowing of the brood moose as it prepared a fateful spring. Within seconds, the door shattered to pieces and in roared an enormous albino moose with flaming pink eyes, snorting and rearing and flailing its broad-beamed antlers about menacingly.

"Ummm…female moose don't have antlers," Frodo scoffed from behind Aragorn.

"Female moose – cows -- only lay the eggs," Gandalf said as he brandished Glamdring. "It is the bull moose who broods over the clutch of eggs until the mooselets hatch."

"Hence the term 'Bull', I suppose," Frodo replied.

From behind the bucking bull moose, a horde of Orc came pouring through the door and attacked the members of the Fellowship. But the bullish brood moose seemed to have only one target in mind: poor Frodo! Snorting and roaring, the great white moose charged toward the Hobbit. Boromir tried to bar the demonic deer's advance, but the maddened moose merely butted Boromir's shield with such force that the Gondorian was sent sprawling. Aragorn met a similar fate and was nearly trampled under the hooves of the enraged elk. Frodo looked about, desperately seeking a place to hide, but his back was against the wall. The albino moose bellowed its battle cry (which is much like its mating call to the untrained observer), and leaped forward, goring Frodo with its fearsome rack. Frodo grunted then gasped, and slid to the ground. The moose snorted in satisfaction and pissed on Frodo's head.

"N-o-o-o-o-o!" Sam cried in slow motion.

The creeping camera panned to the sad faces of the other members of the Fellowship, lingering on each to catch just the right tearful expression. By the time the scene returned to regular speed, Legolas had filled the arboreal beast with several arrows and Gimli had buried an axe in his head. The death of the albino brood moose seemed to dispirit the Orkish rabble and they turned and fled.

"Now is our chance," shouted Gandalf. "Make a run for the stairs!"

Aragorn attempted to lift Frodo and carry him off, but the Hobbit gasped, "I'm alright. I can walk, let me go."

"Frodo, you are alive!" Aragorn cried in wonder. "But the antlers of that moose could have spit a wild whore!"

"You mean boar," Frodo said with a wince.

"You choose your company and I'll choose mine," Aragorn replied in his best Groucho Mark, tapping an imaginary cigar near his mouth.

"Never mind all that," Gandalf chided. "Aragorn, lead the rest down the stairs, and I shall hold the door."

"But we cannot leave you here alone to guard the door!" Aragorn countered.

"Do as I say," Gandalf said fiercely. "Puns are of no more use here. Go!"

The stairway was pitch black and they groped blindly through the passage and down several flights of stone stairs. There was no light whatsoever save a faint glimmer from Gandalf's staff far above. They could hear Gandalf muttering about union scale, bad roles and something about firing his agent. The drums, which had been beating monotonously for nearly the entire chapter, suddenly stopped. There was a blinding flash of white light and a tremendous explosion, followed by a rumbling, bone-shaking thud as tons of rock came crushing down. In another instant Gandalf came flying down the stairs.

"Whooo! That was a close one," Gandalf wheezed as he tried to catch his breath. "No time to explain now, let's get the Utumno out of here!"

And so, they spent a terrible hour treading the tedious flights of interminable stairs, and on the final landing Gandalf decided at last to take a break. "Gandalf," Frodo said worriedly, "what exactly happened up there?"

"I am not sure," the wizard said, shaking his head in dismay. "There was a presence up there that was vaguely familiar, like the faded memory of something long forgotten."

"Like ån Elf und sex?" Gimli giggled, while Legolas frowned.

"Yes…no, what I mean to say is," Gandalf replied in exasperation, "I could barely hold the door against this presence. Whatever it was shattered my shutting-spell like a knife slicing through fresh, creamery butter."

"Mmmmm…butter," Sam moaned hungrily, oblivious to the danger they were in.

"The counter-spell was horrible, it almost overpowered me," Gandalf continued. "It was all I could do to summon a word of command. That is what caused the entire hall to collapse."

"Why didn't you just collapse the hall in the first place," Boromir grumbled. "Then we wouldn't have had to run down all those damn stairs."

Gandalf ignored the surly Gondorian and said, "Quickly, we've no time to dawdle. We are in the Second Hall of Moria, and quite near the gates. We must now sprint to the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm."

"Khazad-Dûm!" Cried Gimli.

"Khazad-Dûm!" Cried Balin from his tomb.

"Khazad**-**Dûm!" Cried the army of Elves waiting patiently at Helms Deep.

"I sense a song coming on," Samwise shouted enthusiastically.

"Oh no," groaned Gandalf.

___Dah-dah Dah-dah Dah-dum!_

___O, the Bridge of Khazad__**-**____Dûm,_  
___How I long to see you spanning_  
___O'er deeps so dark and cold,_  
___Fathomless and so unmanning._  
___But if I had one wish,_  
___I would cross that bridge,_  
___And be back home with you, my darling._

___Moria, so deeply delved_  
___By smelly Dwarves in need of showers._  
___Who look good in mithril mail,_  
___But their stench soon overpowers._  
___But I would stand that stink_  
___If I could cross that link,_  
___And be back home with you, my darling._

___I'm not the kind to run away just like a silly goose,_  
___I've faced a raving Orkish horde led by a rabid moose._  
___I've crossed the miles, so many dear, upon this lonely quest_  
___Just to get back home my love, and tweak those lovely breasts!_

___Ev'ry roiling river's ripples--_  
___Remind me of your nipples!_

___O, the Bridge of Khazad__**-**____Dûm,_  
___Not suspensed or cantilevered._  
___You have no truss, no arches bold --_  
___Made of stone, not dammed by beavers._  
___But I would cross that pit_  
___Just to see your tits,_  
___When I get back home to you, my darling._

"Is it over yet?" Gandalf said with a portion of his beard shoved in each ear.

Frodo nodded 'yes' and the wizard warily pulled out the waxy whiskers. Sure now that the music had ceased, he roused his companions for one final race to the bridge. As the Fellowship ran, arrows began whizzing dangerously close, skittering noisily off stone columns and hissing by their ears. As the first of the group reached the bridge, flames shot up all around them and a tremendous roar shook the walls. Turning, they beheld an enormous shadow within a shadow, wreathed in dark fire, its kindling mane streaming like bristling flame. In one black fist it wielded a stabbing tongue of fire, and in the other a fiery whip that it lashed with a resounding hiss and crack against the cavern walls.

"Oy! Oy! wailed Legolas. "Balwog! A Balwog has come! Good gwacious!"

Gimli quivered and wet his hauberk. "Durin's Bane!" he shrieked while covering his face.

The burning behemoth stepped from the shadows and a coruscating flame licked and sputtered over its monstrous hide like a sun's corona. Then slowly it unfurled its great black bat wings, which spanned the entire cavern, and it unleashed a deafening roar.

"Oh my," Frodo said in awe, "so Balrogs _do_ have wings!"

"Over the bridge!" cried Gandalf. "This foe is beyond you all, fly! I shall hold the bridge. Fly!"

The rest of the Fellowship needed no further encouragement, and they bravely rushed across the bridge, leaving Gandalf, small and alone, in the middle of the great span. The Balrog stepped forward, each pace crushing rubble beneath its ponderous footfalls. It stopped at the head of the bridge and glared down at its pitiful foe.

"You shall not pass!" Gandalf said firmly. He then uttered a memorable phrase about being the servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Anor, and then another basically stating that dark fire would not avail the flame of Udûn; unfortunately, these are copyrighted statements and lawyers are more tenacious than a Balrog could ever be. "You shall not pass!" he shouted again defiantly.

The Balrog at first did not answer. It took a few tentative steps onto the bridge, then cocked its head like a puppy looking intently at the wizard. "Olórin?" it said in a confused, rumbling growl.

Gandalf shifted uneasily on the bridge. "You…you shall not pass," he repeated, but hesitantly. Gazing up at the fiery Balrog, he then murmured, "Roger?"

"Ollie!"

"Rog!"

To the amazement of the Fellowship on the far side of the bridge, and the dismay of the Orcs scratching and biting themselves in irritation on the other side, the Balrog and the wizard started laughing. "It's quite all right!" Gandalf shouted back to his comrades, tears of joy streaming down his face. "I thought the presence at the top of the stairs was familiar," he continued. "This is Rog, or Roger, if you will. He is an old choir chum of mine from back during the Ainulindalë, the Music of the Ainur in the deeps of time. I had the first seat in the baritone section, and he sat right below me in the bass section."

"Good times, good times!" Roger boomed.

"They've gone funny," Samwise whispered to Frodo.

"How long has it been, Rog? Thousands of years, certainly," Gandalf said.

"Before the sun and moon!" Roger snickered, and they both started laughing again.

"Remember that time when you burned down that sacred copse of oak trees? Yavanna was furious!"

"Or the time you made Nienna cry?"

Oh, she was always crying about one thing or another!"

As they laughed and joked and reminisced, Aragorn inched his way toward Gandalf on the bridge. "Gandalf," the dismayed ranger whispered, "shouldn't we be going?"

Gandalf frowned but then sighed. "Rog, we must be going – quest and all. Do you mind?"

"Not at all, dear Ollie," Roger replied.

They gazed into each other's eyes and then smiled warmly. They moved toward each other for one final embrace, but the Balrog's immense weight was too much for the ancient bridge. It collapsed under them and the Balrog went careening off into the darkness. Gandalf had managed to grab a crumbling handhold, but he, too, was slipping. He gazed up wide-eyed at the fellowship and muttered, in what seemed to be relief, "Thank Eru, my role in this fiasco is over!" Then, as if in afterthought, he said, "Fly, you fools!" He then let go and plummeted into the depths.

"They're not going to believe this back in Rivendell," Aragorn said in disbelief.

"Well, I can't go telling this tale in Gondor," Boromir added. "It's just terrible propaganda. The soldiers will start slitting their wrists."

"Ve åre døømed," Gimli grunted as he slumped to the ground.

Frodo reflected for a moment. "What if…we rewrote the scene?" he said slowly, rolling the thought over in his head.

"Did what?" Aragorn asked.

"What if…we just rewrote the scene?" the Hobbit repeated. "You know, Gandalf fights valiantly against the evil Balrog, and they both topple from the bridge -- thus saving the Fellowship!"

"You…you think it could work?" Boromir said hopefully.

"It's better than the truth," Frodo replied.

"Bloody well right," Samwise said with a wink.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-five: The Problem with Predicates and the Vicissitudes of Verbs **

The decimated goblins, while still multifarious in their subterranean battalions, lacked élan with the demise of their incendiary imperator. They gave half-hearted chase to the fleeing Fellowship, but soon gave up in disgust. It was, after all, moose-milking time.

"Stop right there!" the editor bellowed. "Go back to that first sentence."

What's wrong with the first sentence?

"It's just not Tolkien."

How do you mean?

"The wording is all wrong,"

The wording? I thought it flowed marvelously -- a beautifully complex sentence!

"Look," the editor grumbled, chewing the end of his red pencil, "_decimated_ is Latinate and originally concerned the execution of every tenth man, but I believe you are using a more current definition: that of Orcs being _obliterated _or_ annihilated_."

Well, the word has been around for 2000 years -- at least from the time of Julius Caesar. But I was showing that a fraction of Orcs were killed, not that they were obliterated in the melee.

"You can't use the word _melee_ either!"

And why not?

"Because it is French, that's why not! Tolkien had an aversion to France – he was a Francophobe. I believe it was because he contracted syphilis in World War I from a girl named Francie while stationed in Nancy."

He did no such thing!

"Needless to say," the editor muttered, "_multifarious_ is of Medieval Latin derivation, and therefore not a word Tolkien would use, neither did he use the word _subterranean_."

But Tolkien used words with both Latin _and_ Greek etymology!

"Not so overtly as you have presented! They are too…too modern."

Oh, for Christ's sake…go on.

"As far as the words _goblins, battalions, élan _and_ demise,_ they are of French origin, and unacceptable for use in Tolkien's canon."

Tolkien himself used the word _goblin_ in The Hobbit.

"Yes, but _The Hobbit_ is not a canonical work," the editor said haughtily, "he eschewed such words when writing _Lord of the Rings_, just like he edited out _potato, tobacco _and_ poufiasse._"

Poufiasse?

And _incendiary_ and _imperator_ are just too Latinate for Tolkien's work!" the editor declaimed, brooking no more insolence from the wayward narrator. "I want you to rewrite the whole first sentence in a manner fitting to Tolkien's work."

The narrator considered striking the editor with a thesaurus, but eventually submitted to his employer's demands:

_The abregged_ _orcnéas, mynisshed muchel yet sondry in array the undergrowe armees, but soore smerte in herte for lesynge yon fyrey lordynge._

The editor reviewed the sentence with a jaundiced eye. "No, no, no!" he finally blurted. "Middle-English, even a Midland dialect, is far too Frenchified for Tolkien's tastes. Think Beowulf and Beorhtnoth, not Sir Gawain or Orfeo!"

Fortunately, a sangwyn wyght dide in wroth cometh from his tombe and priketh hem the editor in his herte, and with swerd ypunysshed the motteley churl in mid-revision.

"Well it's about bloody time!" Sam grumbled as he made his way up the Dimrill Stairs that led to the Dimrill Foyer then through the Dimrill Gate and out onto the Dimrill Dale.

"Must every last stair, landing, alcove and door have to have a name attached to it?" Merry opined. "It makes the journey that much longer!"

"Well, at least we have reached the golden eaves of Lothlórien," Aragorn sighed in relief.

"Wait…didn't we just…I mean, we just now came from..." Samwise sputtered in confusion. But the struggling Hobbit finally acquiesced to the arbitrary nature of time compression.

"I am not stepping foot in that haunted wood," Boromir said. "It is perilous."

"Yeah, if you're a jerk, maybe," Merry whispered to Pippin.

"Yoo-hoo, welcome to Lothlórien, you hunky travelers from afar!" a vacuous platinum-blond Elf chattered after appearing suddenly from behind a tree. "My name is Haldir, and I shall be your guide this evening." He then curtsied gracefully. "For your comfort and safety, please be sure to listen to and follow these simple guidelines, lest we slay you where you stand: first, in case of emergencies, please climb the mallorn trees clearly labeled with gnome signs, as they have flets, or platforms, placed conveniently out of harm's way and easily accessible from ground level; second, no spitting or cursing in hallowed areas; third, please feel free to move about the forest once we have divined your true intentions; and finally, all dwarves must be blindfolded in accordance with local animosity and historical distrust for the filthy creatures. Thank you once again for visiting the Galadhrim; we hope you'll have a pleasurable stay. But then again, your stay may be short-lived as you bring great evil with you!"

Frodo fidgeted with the Ring hidden under his cloak.

"Are you takkin' me on?" Gimli interrupted gruffly. "I didn'a come all this way tae walk in th' dark; so I'll nae be blindfolded, leastwise by the likes 'o' ye wee faeries!" Gimli noticed Legolas snickering at his predicament. "Haud yer wheesht," the dwarf spat, "smilin' like a bylt haddie. Gang an whistle on yer thoum!"

Of course, nobody understood Gimli in his present linguistic incarnation, but Aragorn understood well enough that things would go quite badly for the Fellowship if the Dwarf maintained his belligerent stance. "Perhaps we should all be blindfolded, so that Gimli won't feel singled out." he said magnanimously.

"Bwindfowded…me?" Legolas balked. "But that will pway havoc with my pwaits and bwaids. I will not have my pwaits and bwaids matted by a bwindfowd!"

"Are ye throu? Be daein wi't, faery-maun!" Gimli said, obviously amused by Legolas' sudden discomfit "Muckle guid may it dae ye. Chowk for jowl we'll be, blind as bats on the bonnie brae. So taek doon tha' sair face -- ye are feart for the day ye niver seen."

Legolas merely shook his head and mumbled, "Pwonoun twouble!" But he allowed himself to be blindfolded for Gimli's sake, and the Fellowship at last were allowed to enter Lothlórien.

The first night in Lorien was spent in the wind swept heights of a mallorn, atop one of the flets Haldir had mentioned in his now infamous Stewardess Guideline Speech. By morning, news had reached them that the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien had bid them welcome, and that they could travel henceforth without blindfolds. Soon they would meet Galadriel…and her…ummm…consort.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-six: Of Galadriel and Whatshisname**

**-Or-**

**Guess Who Wears the Pants in this Family?**

Haldir led the Fellowship through forest glades of stately mallorn that still clung tightly to their golden leaves. Under their feet the dewy greensward was untouched by frost, and a mild breeze warmed by an early morning summer sun wafted and wended about the dappled leaves, breathing a spirit of vitality through the enlivened landscape. Outside the preternatural forest realm of the Galadrim, the gloomy lands were embittered by the sere brown of winter – leafless, lifeless and grim. This startling contrast of opposing extremes was not lost on the Fellowship, but they gladly accepted their good fortune, much like sleepwalkers passing through a pleasant waking dream.

"I wonder who does the weather here?" Samwise said, to no one in particular. "P'raps we can borrow 'em for the rest of the quest."

"Silly literary invention, the woods are under the protection of the Lady of Lórien," Haldir snapped at the Hobbit, barely veiling his Elvish pretentiousness.

"I'll nae be havin' ye talk doon to the wee Hobbits," Gimli shot right back, for he would have no one speak ill of his Hobbit friends, particularly an ambiguous elfin guide. "And wha' of thy Laird?" the Dwarf added. "Has he naught to do wi' the pixie magic 'o' this place?"

Haldir's smug smile faded to a faint frown. "Well…Celeborn, he helps…a bit," the Elf muttered in embarrassment. But Haldir's sagging spirit lifted appreciably when the narration offered a suitable change of subject. "Behold!" he cried in relief. "We are come to Cerin Amroth, the ancient heart of elvendom in Middle-earth!"

"It looks like a big, green mound," Sam said, unimpressed.

Haldir sighed and decided to push on, not wishing to waste delightful descriptions of elanor and niphredil blooming in midwinter on the hallowed hill for these unappreciative, half-wit guests. The sun sank beyond the looming mountains, and darkness settled on the benighted forest. As they walked further, the elves lit silver lamps (first created by the Calaquendi inventor, Alvaedisonélë), and the woods danced with the vibrancy of an entire firefly brigade. Stepping into a vast open expanse, Haldir spread his arms wide and shouted to Samwise, "Does this suit you, little bugger? Behold, Caras Galadon! The city of the Galadrim, where dwells Galadriel, the Lady of Lórien..."

"And Celeborn," added a stock Elvish extra, who was merely passing by.

"And…Celeborn," Haldir grumbled.

They walked upon a road paved in white stone and crossed a bridge of white and came to the great white gates of the city.

"Very clean," Merry whispered to Pippin.

They crossed many paths and hiked up may stairs, up and down, up and down, up and down, until at last they passed a great, shimmering fountain amid a lamp-lit lawn and before them stood the grandest tree in all the forest. Taller than the giant redwood! Towering o'er the mighty Scots pine and the lofty flowering Cherry! The plucky little Aspen! The limping Roo tree of Nigeria. The towering Wattle of Aldershot! The Maidenhead Weeping Water plant! The naughty Leicestershire Flashing Oak! The flatulent Elm of West Ruislip! The Quercus Maximus Bamber Gascoigni…well, at any rate, it were a blinkin' big tree, and quoite unloike anyfin' th' fellership 'ad seen, if ye get me meanin'. I should now loike to return to a dialect more in keepin' wif' th' narra'ive. It's jes 'at, e'ery now and again, I loike to walk about me 'ouse blitherin' 'n' blatherin' in 'is 'omely manner, as it keeps 'em bloody cats well on their 'eels. Ahem…

A gaudy honor guard, festooned in garish accoutrements, greeted the guide and his guests at the mighty bole of the magnificent tree. Haldir said the proper password '_a Locksley_' and the guard allowed them up the serpentine ladder that wound about the bole of the mallorn and disappeared into the golden canopy far above. As the group made their way up the lengthy ladder, they found many wooden flets anchored to massive boughs. These flets were placed at regular intervals, and, as they made their way higher and higher in the tree, they became more and more ornate, appearing as fully furnished antechambers, meeting rooms, liquor stores, and even a Starbucks. Soon, these fashionable platforms, more flats than flets, gave the bored Hobbits the opportunity to play the type of word game fashionable in the Shire at the time.

"Men's Wear!" Merry shouted as they came to one level.

"Toys!" Pippin replied at another.

"Household goods and notions!" Sam added at the next.

"Intimate apparel and cosmetics!" Frodo said in excitement.

"It figures!" Sam grumbled.

"What?" Frodo cried.

"You could have said _Sporting Goods_ or _Furniture_ or even _Bed and Bath_, but no-o-o-o! It's got to be bleedin' _Intimate Apparel and Cosmetics_!"

But before Frodo could protest, they had arrived at the uppermost heights of the tree, and what seemed to be the deck of great ship, which made the easily queasy Hobbits seasick. Fortunately, they followed Haldir into a house built atop the _talan, _a Sindarin word that Tolkien obviously crafted in reminiscence of an eagle, and therefore an aerie, which is eerily unerring in eliciting an internalized image, and thus a subliminal response, in the minds of rabid readers. Now where was I? Oh, yes, in the house upon the talan atop the tree. The room Frodo entered was ovoid in dimensions, much the same, I suppose, as the egg-shaped abodes appearing in some of the more surreal paintings of Bosch or Breugel, but without the bizarre creatures and naked men bent over tooting horns from their buttocks.

At the wider end of the egg -- the side Swift's Blefuscudians preferred to open their eggs on, as opposed to the Lilliputians who, by royal edict, opened theirs at the smaller end – stood two high thrones, and on these regal seats sat two tall Elves, Galadriel and…and…and…

"Celeborn," a nearby Elvish adviser whispered.

….and Celeborn. The members of the Fellowship were each ushered in turn to receive greetings from the Lord and Lady. When they were all at last standing before the thrones, Celeborn said in dismay, "Here there are eight of you, but nine set out from Imladris. Perhaps there was some change of counsel that I am not aware of…"

"Never you mind doing the math, Celeborn dear," Galadriel said with a forced smile as she patted the Elf Lord's hand. "There was no change of counsel, or I…we…would have known. But I do not see Gandalf clearly; a grey mist enshrouds him, and his mind is hidden from me."

"Alas!" cried Aragorn. "Gandalf has fallen into shadow." He glanced over at Frodo, with whom he had practiced the rewrite of Gandalf's fall. Frodo nodded approvingly. "He…he fell in…ummm…battle on the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm."

All the assembled Elves cried in grief. "These are tidings most evil," said Celeborn. He turned angrily towards Haldir and said, "Why has this news not been brought to me before?"

"There, there, my dear," Galadriel crooned in a motherly manner. "We didn't want to upset you. You hair is already silver from worry."

Celeborn pouted for a moment, and then he said, "Well, tell us the full tale now, at the least."

Then Aragorn retold the fabrication he and Frodo had devised, and Legolas played along when it came to the encounter on the bridge. "It was a Balwog of Mowgoth," the Elf said with wide, frightened eyes. "A weal pwobwem for Ewfs of Owd. Quite tweachewous, weawwy."

"Awas!" said Celeborn. "I mean, alas! Long have we feared the terror that slept 'neath Moria. Had I known the Dwarves had unleashed such an evil, I would have forbidden your entrance into our realm. And really, I am rather surprised at Gandalf. That such a seemingly sensible wizard should fall needlessly into folly…"

"None of the deeds of Gandalf were needless," Galadriel interrupted.

Celeborn opened his mouth to speak.

"None!" Galadriel interrupted again.

Celeborn tried once more.

"None!" Galadriel cried shrilly and squeezed Celeborn's hand till it turned blue. Celeborn frowned and slumped back against his throne. Galadriel smiled serenely and continued, "And Gandalf's followers should be held blameless for the deeds of their guide." Galadriel then winked at Gimli and added, "Do not rashly abandon your welcome of the Dwarf, for beneath that mail hauberk beats the heart of a tiger…and all that hair…ROWRRRR!"

There was an uncomfortable silence. At length Celeborn spoke. "Let the Dwarf Gimli forgive my harsh words. I spoke in anger. We shall aid each of you in accordance with his need."

"Celeborn, dear," Galadriel said sweetly, "isn't it well past time that you drilled the troops?"

"Oh, I can drill the troops tomorrow," he said obliviously. "This is much more interesting."

"But dear," Galadriel hissed between clenched teeth, "I think it rather important that the troops be drilled now."

"It can wait."

Galadriel's eye twitched and her fingernails dug deeply into the arms of her throne. Suddenly, her fingers relaxed and a sly smile crossed her lips. "I have foreseen a sudden attack on our Northern border."

"You…you have seen this?" Celeborn cried and bolted upright on his throne.

"Yes, dear," Galadriel nodded. "All the more important that you drill the troops immediately, right?"

"Right!" Celeborn said excitedly. He made his apologies to the Fellowship and left the room.

Galadriel rolled her eyes and then exhaled in exasperation. Regaining her queenly composure, she looked down at Frodo and said, "Your quest is known to us, Frodo of the Shire, but we shall not speak openly of it at this time. Celeborn…" she said with what Frodo thought was distaste, "has wisdom after a fashion, but he aint no Elrond."

There was another uncomfortable silence and the Elves in the room coughed and shifted uneasily. "I am joking, just joking!" Galadriel laughed and the room lightened a bit. "But it was I who first summoned the White Council, and if my machinations…errr…plans had not gone awry, it would have been led by Gandalf and not that strutting peacock of many colors, Saruman." Her cold glare was so intense that Frodo gasped, but then she smiled again so sweetly that he sighed. "But now Gandalf has, as you said, fallen…" She turned to Aragorn and arched a dubious eyebrow. "But hope, however tenuous, still remains. Your quest stands upon a razor's edge – one slip and whoops! You're singing falsetto in Sauron's Choir of Helpless Hobbits."

Frodo patted his groin gingerly and noticed Sam was doing the same.

"But you are tired and filled with great sorrow," Galadriel said.

"No, actually, I'm feeling quite chipper," Frodo replied.

Galadriel's eye twitched and her glare made the Hobbit avert his eyes. "You ARE tired and FILLED with great sorrow!" she shouted. "Now, you shall rest."

Frodo looked up and attempted to speak.

"Rest," Galadriel hissed.

And with that, the audience with Galadriel was over and the Fellowship was herded out of the room. When they finally reached the bottom of the tree, Sam whispered to his companions, "Boy, I bet that Galadriel can be a real bitch to live with!"

"Oh, I dinna rightly know," Gimli sighed. "She seemed a might sassy, but there's some real fire in tha' Elfess witch."

"Hah! Gimwi has the hots for Gawadwiel!" Legolas teased.

"Mebbe ay 'n' mebbe nae," Gimli said blushing, "but a bonnie bride is suin buskit and a short horse is suin wispit."

The other members of the Fellowship looked at one another and shrugged.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-seven: Interview With a Wordwraith**

BBC War Correspondent Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque here in the shadowlands of Avathar between the Pelóri Mountains and Ekkaia, that is, the Outer Sea. Once upon a time, or at least according to one daft theory, the world was lit by two trees, and the light from these illumined elms was eaten by an environmentally unfriendly proto-arachnid named Ungoliant, who just so happened to hail from the bleak and shadowy environs of Avathar. This, of course, is not the reason I am in this god-forsaken shithole, but I thought I'd shine a little_ light_ on the _dark_ history of this place_._

___*spiders chirping*_

Right. In any case, we are here in this netherworldly hinterland, on the very brink of that what is and that what aint, to interview Morthoron, the author of this particular piece of twaddle…errr…speculative literature.

**Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque:** Good evening, or morning, Mr. Wordwraith. It's quite hard to tell what time of day it is, given the lack of a sun or moon.

**Wordwraith:** Good evening. Or morning, if you prefer. Please get that flashlight out of my eyes.

**BURP:** Oh, sorry. Mr. Wordwraith, being a casual reader of fan-fiction, I find it rather unnerving that you, as the author of this parody, insist on inserting yourself in this fiction. Isn't that rather taboo, or at least unconventional, according to the sacred canons of fan-fic?

**WW:** Well, I am rather bored with the story at present. I am using this interview as a vehicle to overcome an insidious case of writer's block -- or writer's boredom, as it were. It's much like a long distance runner hitting a wall after so many kilometers.

**BURP:** Bored…of the Rings? Hmmm…but you've barely come to the end of _The Fellowship of the Ring_. This does not bode well for a continuation of the parody through _The Two Towers_ and _Return of the King_.

**WW:** I am not at all certain that blundering my way through the next two books is warranted. It would be nice to make some money off my writing, after all -- and this parody can be very taxing, time-wise. Besides, given the nature of the presentation, it's not like anyone would really notice if I chucked it all.

**BURP:** Not that anyone would really notice, given the fickle nature of fan-fic readership?

**WW:** Yes, I have this annoying habit of writing novel-length pieces, which appear to be too daunting for fan-fic circles. Anything beyond a page or two, and you lose readership in this age of sound bites, Twitter, 'net acronyms and monosyllabic grunting. Most of the readers say BRB after a few LOL's, then disappear for good. Of course, there are some who actually return after going AFK, but those are far and few between, IMHO.

**BURP:** ROFL! Ummm…J/K…So, basically, what you're saying is that this interview is merely taking up space until you can think of something funny to write.

**WW:** Precisely.

_*Silence*_

**BURP:** And how long do you think we can go on with this bit?

**WW:** Oh, indefinitely. At least a couple thousand words.

**BURP: **But…this isn't funny.

**WW:** Yes, it is.

**BURP:** No, it isn't.

**WW:** Yes, it is.

**BURP:** No, it isn't.

**WW:** Yes, it is.

**BURP:** No, it isn't! Look, I see what you're doing. You're stealing a bit from Python. The Argument Clinic sketch.

**WW:** No, I'm not.

**BURP:** Yes, you are.

**WW:** No, I'm not.

**BURP:** Yes, you are.

**WW:** No, I'm not.

**BURP:** Yes, you are! Oh, this is ridiculous! Look, it's bad enough that we're stuck out here in this no-man's land, but in essence you're arguing with yourself. It's quite self-serving, not to mention rather demented.

**WW:** Well, one has to be a bit balmy to write fan-fiction in the first place. At least I'm not writing swoony romantic epics for Aragorn or adding myself as an additional member of the Fellowship. Wait…that's a good idea, I think I shall write that down...

**BURP:** You wouldn't…

**WW:** I could have a continuous erection…

**BURP:** Please, stop…

**WW:** It would be a great place to stash the ring! Then we could have three towers rather than two.

**BURP:** That's already been done.

**WW:** Like I'm original or something. I shall be called _Viagroin_. That's _Khuzdûl_ for 'enormous, roaring erection'.

**BURP:** How puerile.

**WW:** Hmmm…perhaps you're right. How about an Elvish character – a bit more dignity, you know? I shall be named _Gil-Gonad_!

**BURP:** No.

**WW:** _Erecthelion_?

_To Whom It May Concern:_

_Enough! I most strenuously protest this self-indulgent and highly irregular piece of flummery intruding on an otherwise perfectly mundane and blasé parody. 'Enormous, roaring erections? Why, back in my day we did not discuss our private parts. We kept them where god intended, like in the backsides of our troops on those long, lonely nights in the trenches. *sniffs* Wilfred, I miss you! _

_Ahem! __Now, I insist that you return to the parody post-haste, or I will be forced to resort to extraordinary measures to assure that my orders are duly executed. And we shall have no more talk of continuous erections or tenth members of the Fellowship. It is definitely silly!_

_Yours truly,_

_Brig. Gen. Ivan Sodomly-Prickworth_  
_Commander and Postmaster General, Liechtenstein Foreign Legion _

_P.S. As I can see you have failed miserably in your efforts to continue the parody unabated, you leave me no choice but to sing the national anthem of my noble country, Liechtenstein:_

_**O Liechtenstein, My Liechtenstein**_

_O Liechtenstein, my Liechtenstein,_  
_O doubly landlocked alpine microstate!_  
_You're all right as a principality,_  
_But as a country you are not so great._

_Bordered by Switzerland and Austria,_  
_With an area of 61.7 square miles,_  
_Your constitutional monarchy stands alone_  
_In voting referendums with a frown or smile._

_And though we're only the sixth-smallest nation-state,_  
_Behind the likes of San Marino and the Vatican City --_  
_We are well known for our postage stamps,_  
_And our bus system, which is never shitty._

_Everybody sing!_

_O Liechtenstein, my Liechtenstein,_  
_O doubly landlocked alpine microstate!_  
_You're all right as a principality,_  
_But as a country you are not so great._

_We are the largest producer of sausage casings,_  
_And rank quite high in the making of false teeth,_  
_And as a haven for tax-dodgers and cheats,_  
_Why, Liechtenstein just can't be beat._

_We are only one of two doubly landlocked states,_  
_The other being Uzbekistan,_  
_But they don't even speak English there --_  
_As a tourist you'll find us much more grand!_

_One more time!_

_O Liechtenstein, my Liechtenstein,_  
_O doubly landlocked alpine microstate!_  
_You're all right as a principality,_  
_But as a country you are not so great._

**~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~**

After their rather contentious audience with Galadriel and…and…and…her consort, the Fellowship rested from their arduous journey, while still mourning the loss of Gandalf.

"Oh, that's a sad song the Elves are singing," Samwise said. "What are they saying, Legolas?"

"They awe wamenting the woss of Mifwandiw," Wegowas weplied sadwy…err…Legolas replied sadly, "but I can't twanswate the wywics as the woss is stiww too cwose fow me."

Meanwhile, Boromir was sobbing as well, but for reasons other than the loss of Gandalf. Aragorn, who just happened to be passing by on his way to moon in unrequited melancholy at the spot where he and Arwen first met, patted Boromir's shoulder sympathetically. "There, there, Boromir," Aragorn said cordially, "it can't be all that bad."

"Oh, it is!" Boromir cried. "This place is altogether evil. Look, I've gotten hives from sleeping near hemlock."

"Evil is as evil does," Aragorn replied in a paraphrase of Forest Gump. "You lug your own evil here, and it has naught to do with the baggage handlers of Lórien."

"Do you think they call it _luggage_ because one _lugs_ it about?"

Aragorn could tell Boromir was dissembling because of the offhand remark, but he didn't pry further, as it would require a tiresome dialogue he had no interest in continuing.

"Have you ever been called home by silvery peel of triumphal trumpets and seen the white tower of Ecthelion with its banners fluttering in the warm summer breeze?"

"Yeah, yeah," Aragorn yawned, "been there, done that."

"You've been to Minas Tirith, then?"

"I spent some time in the Gondor many, many years ago. I am eighty-seven, you know!"

"You've kept well," Boromir said with some surprise. "Do you have a Ring as well?"

"No, nothing like that," Aragorn answered modestly. "Just long-lived, I guess." But Aragorn thought back to his time in Gondor under the assumed name Thorongil and sighed wistfully, "I remember this girl I dated, Finduilas. Boy-oh-boy! She could do things with her tongue…"

"My…my mother's name was Finduilas!" Boromir spat indignantly.

"Oh, she wasn't from Gondor," Aragorn replied hastily, "she was from Dol Amroth. She had a thing for sailors. We first did it on a ship…"

"My…my mother was from Dol Amroth!" Boromir growled.

"It's just a coincidence," Aragorn laughed uneasily. "Her older sister, Ivriniel, was even wilder, but she stood me up after a few romps in the hay…"

"My…my aunt's name was Ivriniel!" Boromir cried in anguish.

Aragorn bit his lip and decided to shut-up; however, the damage was already done.

"I don't remember my mother ever mentioning an Aragorn," Boromir hissed. "But she was always sad in Gondor – said she missed the…the ships. Her last words were for someone named…Thorongil!"

"Imagine that!" Aragorn mumbled.

But before Boromir and Aragorn could discuss prickly paternity issues, the scene fortunately shifted to another part of the forest. Frodo and Sam were walking about in the twilight, prattling on in stereotypical Hobbitish manner.

"So, what do you think of Elves?" Frodo asked Sam. "Everything you wished for?"

Sam thought for a minute (speaking requiring much energy from Gamgee) and said, "Well, there's Elves and Elves, Mr. Frodo, or rather, Elves that are Elves and 'em that is more Elvish, if you get my meaning."

Frodo did not get Sam's meaning, but he nodded as if he did.

"There's many an Elf that may be of the Elves," Sam continued, "but are not quite as Elvish as other Elves who got more Elvish in 'em, in a manner of speaking."

Frodo smiled wanly, like one does when a drunk won't stop talking to you on a bus, even though you've ignored him after several stops. Unfortunately for Frodo, he had no newspaper to pretend to be immersed in. Suddenly, Galadriel appeared in the forest glade. She shimmered in a spectral white gown and almost appeared to be gliding as she made her way ghostlike through the grass. She beckoned the Hobbits to follow her but remained silent. In an enclosed garden with a sparkling fountain she stopped before a stone pedestal upon which sat a silver basin. In annoyance, Galadriel looked to the left and to the right of the pedestal, but something was obviously missing.

"You were looking for a ewer, were you?" Sam said as he handed the Lady of Lórien a silver pitcher, which was lying in the grass.

Galadriel gave Sam a half-hearted smile and then used the ewer to draw water from a stream that fed the garden's fountain. Pouring the water dramatically into the basin (well, as dramatically as one can pour water), Galadriel said, "This is the Mirror of Galadriel!"

"See Mr. Frodo," Sam said, "that's the difference between us Hobbits and them Elves. Back home, we'd call that a water basin, and here they calls it a mirror. It's all so confusing."

"This is the Mirror of Galadriel," Galadriel repeated while glaring at Sam. "The mirror can see many things, that which was, that which is, and that which may yet be."

"In a mirror back home, a parallel beam of light changes its direction as a whole, while still remaining parallel; the images formed by a mirror are virtual images, the same size as the original object – a reflection, I guess you'd say. It's a might different with you Elves, I s'pose."

Galadriel bit her cheek and stifled a curse. "I believe it is what you droll little folk call magic," she said at last. "Although I haven't the slightest idea what you mean, particularly since you use the same term for gap-toothed carnies and charlatans using sleight of hand. But, in any case, this is my little parlor trick. Would you care to see it, Samwise?"

Sam blushed and nodded.

"And would you like to look in the mirror, Frodo?"

It is said that curiosity killed the cat; in the case of Hobbits, that adage is a truism. Both fearful and yet intrigued, Frodo was drawn hesitantly toward lip of the basin. He peered in with one eye closed. The Mirror of Galadriel was rather cloudy, like when one throws salt into boiling water. The murky water rippled and roiled, and the dark reflections of the garden's overhanging trees gave way to daylight scenes from outside of Lothlórien. Frodo gasped.

"I see a New Line Cinema logo," Frodo muttered. "Drat, I'll have to get through all the previews first."

"Well, I see something completely different," Sam blurted. "I see the Shire! So this here mirror must have picture-in picture technology." Then Sam glowered angrily. "Hey now! They gone and dug up the Gaffer's taters, and cut down all the trees on the Bywater Road!"

But Frodo did not see the Shire at all; rather, from the deepest shadows of the mirror he could feel a presence lurking, drawing ever nearer to the surface. He could detect vague outlines of the form as it made its way up from the fathomless depths. Then, with sudden horror, he realized at last what skulked in the mirror: A lidless eye, searching, ever searching for – HIM! In desperation, Frodo sought in vain for the channel changer, but this mirror was obviously a manual model. The Ring, which up until now had remained safely hidden beneath his tunic, fell forward towards the mirror, barely restrained by the taut gold chain that hung from Frodo's neck. He was being pulled downward into the water by the Ring, and the eye had caught sight of him! With all his strength, Frodo pulled frantically away from the mirror, and the Hobbit ended up landing on the grass with a heavy thud.

"I know what it was you saw," Galadriel whispered mysteriously.

"And you didn't help?" Frodo grumbled. "Thanks loads!"

"The Great Eye has plagued my thoughts as well," Galadriel intoned, ignoring Frodo's flippancy. "But it is not with sleight of hand that these woods are defended. Ever the Dark Lord seeks to read my thoughts, but he is stymied -- for now." Then her withering glare fell upon the daunted Hobbit and he cowered from her stern visage. Quite pleased with her abilities, she smiled demurely, and so angelic was her mien that Frodo felt as if he were spun sugar, melting from the heat surging under his burning collar. "Why, Mister Baggins," Galadriel crooned, "why don't y'all let us see that little old Ring of yours. I'd surely appreciate it."

Frodo staggered to his feet but he could not take his gaze off the enthralling Noldorin queen. "D'you…do you want the One Ring, m'lady?" He stuttered like a stupefied schoolboy.

Galadriel smirked in satisfaction, then her left eye twitched. "Why, Frodo, y'all are so gallant. I have long considered what I would do, should a dimwitted Hobbit fall into my clutches…tender grasp…with the Ring in his possession."

She moved out from underneath the trees so that moonlight would catch her soliloquy in just the right proportions of shadow and light. "And now you offer it to me of your own free will! In the place of some tawdry, bloodshot eye you will have a luscious pair of breasts, full and teardrop shaped! Fair and shapely, without unsightly stretch marks! Not old and saggy but firm as ripe pears glistening in the sunlight! Stronger than a Victoria Secret's foundation! All shall love my nipples and despair!"

She lifted her hand and there was a ring of adamant shining with a luminescence that was blinding, blotting out the wan light of the moon as if it were a wavering candle in the Sun. To Frodo, Galadriel loomed taller than measure and her beauty was unendurable. But with a wave of her hand the stunning Ice Queen was gone, and in her place was a simple Elf maid dressed in white shivering in the pale moonlight.

"But then again," Galadriel sighed, "being a conqueror of worlds is not all it's cracked up to be; tyranny on a global scale requires too much work." She smiled gently at Frodo. "I have passed the test. I will remain Galadriel and get the hell out of this parody as soon as possible."

"Damn! Now that's what I call magic!" Sam gushed. "Do it again!"


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-eight: Row, Row, Row Your Boat, Don't Let Your Members Hang. Cos' If You Do, You're In The Stew, And Then You've Got Wetwang!**

_Wetwang, Wetwang, Wetwang --_  
_What sensible Elves name Nindalf._  
_One can't help but smirk saying Wetwang,_  
_Not even a grump like Gandalf._

_Wetwang, Wetwang, Wetwang --_  
_It's right there on the Middle-earth map._  
_One might seriously suffer through Wetwang,_  
_With lower extremities chapped._

And so, the Fellowship made ready for their imminent departure from Lothlórien…

_Wetwang, Wetwang, Wetwang –_  
_Below the mighty, roaring Rauros._  
_One plummets off the precipice _  
_Singing Wetwang! in rousing chorus._

And so, the Fellowship made ready for their imminent departure from Lothlórien…

_Wetwang, Wetwang, Wetwang –_  
_That mysteriously marshy fen._  
_One only ever mentions the Wetwang,_  
_Just to say Wetwang once again._

_WETWANG!_

_There, I've said it again._

And so, the Fellowship -- excuse me, but are you quite finished?

_Yes, I believe so._

No further verses?

_No, I am quite done. Thank you._

Look, are you certain? Because I don't wish to repeat the first sentence of the chapter again.

_Please, be my guest!_

And so, the…

_Wetwang!_

… Fellowship made ready for their…

_Wetwang!_

…imminent departure from…

_Wetwang!_

…Lothlórien.

_Wetwang!_

Yes, the pernicious perils of watery Wetwang, a Yorkshire Wolds village and civil parish in the East Riding of Yorkshire, England. No one really knows how the village of Wetwang got its scurrilous name: some suggest the name is derived from the Old English word for a wet field; others maintain it comes from the Norse word _Vettvangr_, meaning 'field upon which occurs a trial or legal action'; still others insist that that was how the first magistrates of Wetwang dotted their _I's_ and crossed their _T's_, which is why the word _pencil_ is much like the word _penis_. In any case, the village's principal claim to fame was the unearthing of the ancient 'Wetwang Chariot', purposefully buried 2500 years ago along with an Iron Age woman of very high status. No one knows why the woman was buried with the chariot, but some scholars surmise that she did not provide a disgruntled local lord with enough Wetwang, and hence she was given a one-way ride to the afterlife. And now, back to our regularly scheduled programme _'Wetwang by Moonlight: How I met your Mother'_ already in progress…

And so, the Fellowship made ready for their imminent departure from Lothlórien…

*_pregnant pause_*

All right then, they were taken by Haldir (who seemingly was relieved of his more pressing duties as a Marchwarden fending off increasingly vicious Orkish attacks, to simply acting as a menial servant to the Fellowship's every beck and call – priorities, you know) to a lamp lit quay with dozens of Elvish ships of various makes and models. The travelers were given three gray dinghies stocked with provisions.

"We will take the boats down the Anduin and stop at the falls above Wetwang," Legolas said.

"Is tha' pr'noonced _Retrang_, then?" Gimli asked.

"_Retrang_? Is that really how you say it?" Sam echoed

"No, it is said _Wetwang_," Legolas replied. "It is a mawshy awea bewow the Wauwos. Why do you ask?"

"Truth to tell," Sam answered, "you've naught said anything quite right since we started out from Rivendell."

As the sullen Legolas sulked, Galadriel and…and…

"Celeborn," Haldir whispered smugly.

…Galadriel and Celeborn arrived to wish the Fellowship farewell. "Gifts we have brought for these brave warriors," Celeborn said.

"Thank you, my dear," Galadriel interrupted, "I shall take it from here." Celeborn bit his lip in consternation and pretended to check the moorings of the boats. Galadriel snapped her fingers and several Elves of her retinue came forward bearing parcels for each of the Fellowship.

"This is for thee, Dúnadan," Galadriel said as she handed Aragorn a really nifty black sheathe embossed with silver runes to house his sword.

"That's it then?" Aragorn huffed.

Galadriel scowled at Aragorn, then handed him a broach with a green jewel. "This is Elessar, the Elf Stone. It is a sign of hope that you will not muck up the prophesy foretold by Malbeth the Queer."

"Malbeth the Seer, my dear," Celeborn corrected.

Galadriel rolled her eyes. "She always struck me as being rather dyke-ish."

"I believe Malbeth was a he," Celeborn replied.

Galadriel ignored her husband and moved down the line and gave each member of the Fellowship an appropriate gift. Coming to Gimli, she said, "And what can the Lady of the Galadrim bestow upon one of Durin's race?"

Gimli mumbled something about Wetwang, but then spoke up. "I'm newt one to be aksin' yer ladyship's blessin'," he said blushing, "but If it nae be too muchel boother, I'll be aksin' naught but for a wee strand 'o' yer bonnie hair."

Galadriel was flattered. "And what would a dwarf do with a single strand of Elvish hair?"

Gimli blushed. "Well, I noticed ye gifted th' faery from Mirkwood a stout bow strung wi' Elfin hair, and I says to meself, Gimli MacGloin, tha' hair be passin' strong! So ye see, I ate some cake airly on, afore noon it were, and damned if I doon't still have poppy seeds a' twixt me teeth."

"You…you want to use my hair as…dental floss?" Galadriel hissed indignantly.

"Juist that, yer ladyship," the dwarf said with a toothsome smile that revealed his periodontal predicament in black and white. "I'll nae be able to chaw yer Elfin cram wi' these seeds giffen me the tuith-ague. Me gums are sair!"

Eventually, Galadriel acquiesced, but only if the Dwarf did his flossing out of her sight. Finally, she came to Frodo. "I give thee this, Ringbearer," she said as she handed the Hobbit a glittering crystal vial. "This is the Phial of Galadriel, extracted from the light of Eärendil, our favorite star. Use it to light your way when all has gone dark."

"Look there, Mister Frodo," Sam cried, "an Elvish flashlight!" He then frowned. "And all I got was a box 'o' dirt."

Having grown tired of the whole tedious conversation, Galadriel gave the Fellowship a curt farewell and, with Celeborn dutifully following, left them to ponder the next leg of their journey.

"Well, let's shove off," Aragorn sighed. "I think we've worn out our welcome here."

As they paddled down the wide, darkling waters of the Anduin, Frodo, who was sharing a boat with Sam and Aragorn, said, "I just saw a shadowy little figure jump into the water back there. Is that..."

"Yes, I've been aware of his presence for quite awhile," Aragorn answered grimly. "He has been following us ever since Moria, maybe even Rivendell."

"Poor soul," Frodo whined in his usual mix of sympathy, revulsion and girly melancholy. "Gollum must want the Ring desperately."

"Gollum?" Aragorn laughed. "That's not Gollum. It's Bilbo!"

Behind them in the river, the ancient Hobbit awkwardly grappled with a floating log. "Try to write me out of the story, will they?" he wheezed as he struggled to maintain his precarious position atop the log. "Well, I'll show those bastards there's some Tookishness still left in these old bones."

Gollum, meanwhile, sat on the shore, forlornly shaking his head. "What's this parody coming to, my precious? We wonders. Yes-s-s-s, we wonders."


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-nine: Boromir's Big, Wet Homoerotic Sendoff **

Hmmm…perhaps playing the gay card is too obvious for the last chapter of this book.

**Chapter Twenty-nine: Frodo and Sam's Bogus Journey**

As So-crates once said, _'Like, be excellent to each other, dude!'_ Totally…not!

**Chapter Twenty-nine: Hey! They Left Lurtz Out of the Book! **

I can't believe they couldn't find at least one hack writer to properly follow film canon! This omission has completely upended my suspension of disbelief. Well, that joke would be humorous – if the fans of the film could actually read.

**Chapter Twenty-nine: Boromir's Big, Wet Homoerotic Sendoff **

But then again, the general perception of the story is that there are subtle undertones – albeit unintended – of latent, frustrated homosexuality. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

**Chapter Twenty-nine: The Stunning Climax**

Nah, I've already done that shtick in _Monty Python's The Hobbit_ parody. Wait a moment…I've already done this repetitive chapter title bit as well. Oh dear…

**Chapter Twenty-nine: The Dim Realization **

Look, it's not as if I've run out of ideas. I think I've managed to variate the word puns, slapstick and literary allusions quite well…

**Chapter Twenty-nine: He's Rationalizing Again **

And yes, I've admittedly lifted other people's material, but it's a parody of Tolkien for Christ's sake. I mean, really, the man created one damned creature, a Hobbit, and then grabbed the entire contents of the _Völuspá_ and the _Nibelungenlied_ for the rest of his sordid tale! The story of Turin? It's a rip-off of the Finnish _Kalevala_ -- right down to the maniacal, talking sword! But it's not stealing for HIM, oh no – for Tolkien it's a brilliant literary synthesis!

**Chapter Twenty-nine: Fraud! **

Oh, I've tried to be original. I've labored over every word, teased every last nuance, acted as the cunning linguist in matters of innuendo…

**Chapter Twenty-nine: Can You Believe This Bullshit? **

But it's hard trying to always be so damned funny. Always funny, funny always, funny, funny funny, funny, funny, funny, funny, funny! The word no longer even makes sense when I say it: FUN-NEE, FU-NEE, FUNNEEEEE! And the expectations are mounting. Spiraling! Tottering! Faltering! Falling! And there are still two more books in the trilogy! Oh, I know what you fanatical Tolkien freaks are smarmily muttering: _it's not a trilogy, Morthoron, it was never intended to be split into three parts_. Sod off! I will use French and Latin words if I want to! I will give Welsh names to all the Orcs and have Slavic Elves drunk and swearing like drunken Portuguese sailors taking advantage of a virtuous llama. Or even an underage alpaca! Yes, wanton, orgiastic Llamalette pornography! Better yet, I WILL MAKE THE ENTIRE STORY ALLEGORICAL! A FABLE OF THE ATOM BOMB! I WILL…

_*Sounds of a keyboard clattering, paper rustling, chair upending, a horrific crash and intermittent groans*_

**Chapter Twenty-nine: The Dénouement of a Writer's Breakdown **

Sonofabitch! I think I've broken my hand on the edge of the desk. I'll have to type one-handed. Where are my cigarettes?

_*The Pavlovian sound of a flicking Bic, followed by a nervous inhale and then a languid, satisfying exhale*_

**Chapter Twenty-nine: Let's Just Muddle On with the Story, Shall We?**

Frodo pulled the near-drownded and sopping Samwise into the boat. Sam wheezed and shivered and hacked convulsively for quite a while; yet when he had finally spewed out enough rank river water to speak, he instead paused for a moment and looked about dazedly. There was a creeping unease growing in his mind. Something was just not right.

"Mister Frodo," the Hobbit chittered through chattering teeth, "something's amiss, and make no mistake."

"Whatever do you mean, dear Sam?" Frodo asked in his usual annoyingly cloying manner. "It's just you and me now, heading off to Mordor. We've just reduced the superfluous dialogue and horrid accents exponentially."

"Yes…I can see…_that_," Sam hesitated, "but how did we get to this point?"

"Well, I rowed out to the middle of the river, and you tried desperately to swim after me. It was all quite dramatic."

"Ummm…yes…I'm sure it were, Mister Frodo," Sam said, still struggling to put a finger on the problem, "but what happened to this here story? One paragraph, the Fellership is rowing down the Anduin, trading barbs about Wetwang and Elvish dental floss, and then in the next, you and I are alone heading for the Blacklands. It just don't make sense, if you get my meaning."

"Now Sam," Frodo replied rather condescendingly, "I think you are grossly exaggerating. There were several paragraphs of meandering narrative randomness that separates us from the boat ride down the Anduin. The previous chapter was _so_ last week."

"Still," Sam grumbled, "it seems we skipped out on a whole lot 'o' action."

"Poor, poor Sam," Frodo sighed. "Still stuck in the Shire, where every burp and fart can last several minutes. Here in the real world outside of Hobbiton there are things called time compression and editing. Out here, no one has time for six or seven meals in a day, and folks don't take all morning to mow a ten-foot strip of grass and then spend all afternoon in a pub."

"Out here sucks," Sam huffed bluntly.

"Yes…yes it does," Frodo said in glum agreement. "Would it help if we interspersed our dialogue with jarring flashbacks?"

"Nah. It's all ruinded, so to speak. It's one thing to be in the action, and another altogether to get it second-handed. It's a might like getting drunk and waking up next to a fine, young hobbit-maid saying you and her just had the best sex 'o' her life."

"I wouldn't know," Frodo replied with noticeable distaste.

**~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~**

Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas stood along the riverbank, watching intently as Frodo and Sam clambered up the hills on the far side of the Anduin.

"Well, that's that," Aragorn sighed in resignation as he wiped the Orkish blood and tattered shards of flesh from his notched blade.

"Awe'nt we going awfter them?" Legolas cried.

"No," Aragorn said, "I'm afraid my boots will not stand up too well in the marshes. Besides, Bilbo and Gollum should catch up to them soon, and the very thought of that dialogue makes me cringe."

Legolas eyes grew wide in fear. "That wiw be quite wetched, weawwy."

"I theenk then, eet's finito for our questo, amigos," Gimli grumbled in disgust.

Aragorn arched an eyebrow at Gimli's newfangled accent. "Must you talk like that, Gimli? It is quite off-putting."

Gimli merely shrugged. "Nuevo chapter, nuevo accent, ésse."

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "Let's at least go back and do something with Boromir's body."

Gimli frowned. "Boromir?" He spat. "We don't need no steenking Boromirs."

Legolas nodded. "He was such a whiny bitch."

"Well, I think we can all agree that Boromir is better off dead," Aragorn muttered. "I certainly won't miss him." Then the others caught a mischievous glint in the ranger's eyes. "You know what would be cool? Let's stick his body in a boat and dump him over the falls!"

Legolas smiled maliciously. "Oh, I would dearwy wove to watch that, Awagown!"

"I know!" Aragorn laughed. "It would be a viral video hit on YouTube."

So, the three comrades dumped Boromir's body in a boat, and sent him unceremoniously down the Anduin towards the Rauros.

"Now what?" Aragorn said dejectedly as the boat dropped out of sight in the rushing water of the falls. "Shall we just go home?"

"Wait, muchachos," Gimli said, "I can't help but theenk we're forgettin' sometheeng or other."

Legolas scratched his head and Aragorn looked puzzled. But then they all three shrugged and prepared to leave. Suddenly, Aragorn espied an Elven broach stomped into the mud. "This must be Merry or Pippins!" He cried.

"Not wightwy do da weaves of Wówien fawl," Legolas said in all seriousness.

"Shall we then leave the Hobbits to the endless torments of the Orcs and their malingering master, Saruman?" Aragorn asked grimly.

There was a long pause. A very, very, very, very long pause. In fact, the lapse in the dialogue amounted to a veritable interregnum of an interruption.

Finally, Aragorn mumbled, "Well, I suppose we should go hunt some Orc."

"I theenk I prefer de long pause," Gimli grumbled.

And so, the three hunters gathered up what scant provisions they could carry on their backs and sprinted off in the direction the Orcs had taken the two captive Hobbits. Meanwhile, Frodo and Sam had crested the last hill and stared out at the vast and barren wasteland that stretched for endless miles before them.

"It could be worser, Mister Frodo," Samwise said optimistically.

"How could it be any worse?" Frodo whined.

"Well, at least it aint raining."

Suddenly, the overcast skies rumbled and there was a flash of lightning. The Hobbits were quickly drenched in a torrential downpour.

"It still could get worser," Sam said, maintaining his obnoxiously oblivious optimism.

Frodo considered putting on the Ring and disappearing, and leaving Sam where he stood. But he merely grunted some curses and began slogging down the muddy hills of Emyn Muil in the general direction of Mordor, the Land of Shadow Puppets.

**~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~**

_Thus ends the first part of the parody of the War of the Rings._

_The second part is called **'Monty Python's Two Towers'**, or perhaps **'Fawlty Towers'** in honor of John Cleese. On second thought, let's just keep it **'Two Towers'** and forego any further copyright infringements. The **'Two Towers'** recounts the further slapstick adventures of the members of the Fellowship as they maneuver around **Orthanc**, the silly citadel of the sardonic Saruman, and **Minas Morgul**, the mangey manse of the most mawkish minion of Mordor. Alliteration aside, please join us for further fun as the now sundered Fellowship blunders blithely through a new set of asinine adventures and tactless tales._

"Better bring your waders," Sam said. "The shit's getting a might deeper, if you follow me."


End file.
